POEMS 


HERBERT    MULLER    HOPKINS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

PROFESSOR  WILLIAM  MERRILL 

AND 
MRS.  IMOGENE  MERRILL 


POEMS 


BY 


HERBERT  MULLER  HOPKINS 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 
1911 


Copyright  1910  by  Pauline  Mackie  Hopkins 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Je- 
anne 


Many  of  these  poems  originally  appeared  else- 
where and  are  used  here  through  the  courtesy  of  The 
Bookman,  Harpers  Magazine,  The  Churchman, 
Out  West,  the  Reader  and  the  Outlook. 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


To 

CECIL  MACKIE  HOPKINS 

This  collection  of 

his  father's  poems 

is  dedicated  by 

his  mother 


M688076 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Song   II 

Joy    II 

Victory    12 

Epithalamium    12 

To   Toledo 15 

Friendship 16 

The  Watcher 17 

The  Outcast   18 

Cloudland , 18 

Watch    Therefore    19 

The  Pessimist   2O 

Moonlight    21 

A  Love  Letter 23 

Retrospect    23 

Twilight  in  San  Pablo  Valley 24 

Brekekekex  Koax  Koax 25 

To  a  Flirt 25 

On  the  March 2^ 

By  the  Brookside    28 

5 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Dream    29 

Nebulae  of  Song 30 

The  Three  Pilgrims 31 

To  An  American-Man-oj-Wars-Man 31 

Oft  in  the  Morning 33 

Disillusion    34 

The  North  Wind  in  California 34 

The  Wild  Ducks  of  Illinois 35 

The  Sailors  Return    36 

Sonnets  of  Buried  Nippur 37 

The  Battle  Line   38 

The    Truce    38 

Along  the  Bay  Shore 39 

My  Heart  Hath  Sung  of  Thee 39 

The  Estadea    40 

Love  in  April   41 

Come  Not,  Fair  Spring 42 

To  Columbia  University    43 

I  Stood  in  Dreams  Beside  the  Gate 44 

Metempsychosis    44 

The  Prison  Builders 45 

6 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Children  of  the  Night 46 

God's  Love   46 

Summer  Dawn  in  New  York 47 

Senex  Morosus    47 

The  Cat 48 

To  the  Late  Lingering  Moon 49 

The  Morning  Watch 50 

Bubbles    51 

A  Woman's  Answer 52 

A  Morning  Thought 53 

In  the  Starlight 53 

Enigmatical  Jennie   54 

The  Years  So  Few 54 

The  Bugle  Call 55 

The   Virginia  Reel   56 

The  Rain   56 

A  Song  to  My  Beloved 57 

To  the  Railroad  Train    58 

The  Cry  of  the  Workers 60 

Coming  Home 6 1 

The  Song  of  Dead  Cities 61 

Ambition    62 

7 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

My  Darling  Slept  an  Endless  Sleep 63 

To  an  Obstructionist   63 

The  Thirty-first  of  May   64 

The  Heart's  Desire    65 

On  Entering  a  New  Home 65 

Teucer    66 

A  Roman  Revel 67 

Hymn  to  Minerva    70 

The  Message 71 

To  Lesbia's  Sparrow    72 

Paris  Redivivus 73 

Catullus  to  Lesbia   76 

Song   77 

Lament  of  the   Theban  Maidens  for  Eteocles 

and  Polynices 77 

The  Smoker's  Reverie 79 

Pervigilium    Venerls    80 

Hymnus  Academicus  Matutinus 84 

Leaves    85 

The  Great  Gray  Arch 86 

In  Extremis 88 

8 


POEMS 


SONG 

Ah,  love  was  sweeter  than  the  breath  of  flowers 
Across  the  sea,  from  lands  beyond  our  sight; 
And  swifter  than  the  footsteps  of  the  hours 
That  bear  our  souls  in  slumber  to  the  light. 

Ah,  love  was  cruel  as  the  lurking  thorn  ; 
I  plucked  the  rose,  impatient  of  delay, 
I  plucked  the  rose,  and  now  I  stand  forlorn, 
The  fragrant  petals  scattered  in  the  way. 

JOY 

To-day  did  Fortune  turn  and  smite, 

And  her  lash  was  the  lash  of  man's  despite ; 

Yet   when   she   deemed    I   would   wince   and   cry, 

I  thought  of  song  and  knew  not  why. 

Why  does  the  bird  in  the  darkening  wood 

Sing  of  his  faith  that  life  is  good, 

His  little  life  of  a  summer's  day, 

Dreaming  that  joy  will  live  alway? 

Why  does  the  sun  return  again, 

After  the  night  of  wind  and  rain  ? 

Why  do  I  sing? 

Come,  my  harp,  for  my  heart  is  glad. 
Full  too  oft  have  our  songs  been  sad, 
Full  too  oft  when  the  good  sun  shone 
I  swept  your  strings  to  a  faithless  moan. 
Wake,  my  harp,  to  a  nobler  beat: 

This  man  suffered  and  found  life  sweet. 

Poor  he  was  and  of  small  renown, 

Greeted  often  by  Fortune's  frown, 
But  he  met  his  Love  and  she  loved  him  still, 
Till  their  brief  sun  vanished  behind  the  hill. 

Just  one  song  to  the  world  repeat — 

This  man  loved  and  found  life  sweet. 


II 


VICTORY 

It  is  not  life's  brief  tenure  that  I  moan, 
Its  many  tears,  it  vanishing  delights, 

Nor  all  the  bitterness  my  heart  hath  known 
In  the  grim  silences  of  wakeful  nights. 

Nor  doth  my  spirit  in  the  battle  quail, 
Dreaming  of  pleasure  and  inglorious  ease  ; 

My  arm  would  answer  mighty  flail  with  flail, 
And  try  results  with  mortal  destinies. 

But  this  my  prayer,  and  this  my  one  request : 
That  when  my  wrestle  with  the  foe  is  done, 

It  be  not  said  of  me,  "He  did  his  best," — 
Not  that  alone,  but  let  them  add,  "He  won." 

EPITHALAMIUM 

Throw  the  waiting  portals  wide, 
For  she  pauses  at  the  door; 
Hear  the  organ's  sudden  roar 
Shout  a  welcome  to  the  bride! 

Shall  I  say  that  she  is  fair, 
As  a  rose  at  dawn  of  day, 
Or  a  yellow  poppy  bright 
Luminous  against  the  night? 
[Shall  I  say  that  she's  the  vine, 
He  the  oak  she  doth  entwine?] 

Nay,  a  phrase  I  cannot  find, 

In  my  wonderment  of  mind! 

Every  simile  is  dumb 

As  I  see  her  slowly  come 

Down  the  aisle  to  where  he  stands, 

And  the  roses  in  her  hands 


12 


Seem  less  innocent  and  good 
Than  her  wondrous  womanhood. 

And  the  bridegroom  too  is  fair, 
In  his  strength  and  manly  grace 
In  his  quietness  of  face, 
And  the  burdens  he  will  bear; 
And  I  look  into  the  years, 
Knowing  he  will  dry  her  tears 
In  his  sunniness  of  heart, — 
That  they,  never  more  will  part, 
Till  the  genial  years  shall  bring 
Comfort  of  the  easy  chair, 
Sitting  loved  and  loving  there, 
Nodding  yes  to  everything! 

Symbol  of  eternal  love 
Is  the  ring  that  he  has  given, 
Blessings  brooding  like  a  dove 
From  the  open  gate  of  heaven! 

Let  the  organ  louder  play, 
As  they  pass  adown  the  aisle, 
Sing  the  glad  triumphant  way, 
Stretching  sunny  mile  on  mile! 
Yet  I  hear  a  wistful  strain 
Follow  close  upon  the  glad, 
As  a  sudden  rush  of  rain 
Turns  an  autumn  morning  sad, 
Sweeps  across  the  yellow  grain, 
Hides  the  still  ungathered  sheaves, 
Covering  the  sodden  plain 
With  a  robe  of  ruined  leaves. 

Sweeter  now  the  music  plays, 
Climbing  to  its  final  height, 
Silently  )^our  poet  prays, 

13 


As  you  vanish  in  the  night, 
And  he  hears  the  horses*  feet 
Clatter  down  the  stony  street. 

Groom,  what  happiness  is  thine, 
In  the  days  that  crowd  apace, 
In  her  loveliness  and  grace, 
Precious,  hourly  anodyne! 
Often  in  the  flitting  night 
You  shall  hold  her  to  your  heart, 
Often  in  the  early  light 
You  shall  gaze  with  lips  apart, 
Gaze,  with  eyes  unsatisfied, 
At  the  beauty  of  your  bride. 

And  beware  that  you  repine 
Any  wrong  that  you  have  done; 
Still  the  sifting  years  refine, 
Every  day  is  life  begun. 
Look  not  back  upon  the  past, 
For  she  loves  you  as  her  King, 
Kingly  be  the  love  you  bring, 
Till  you  triumph  at  the  last! 

To  you,  O  Bride,  I  fain  would  tell 

The  thoughts  that  come,  though  bidden  not, 

The  thought  of  one  who  loves  you  well, 

And  stands  aside,  alone,  forgot, 

To  muse  upon  a  woman's  lot. 

I  saw  you  smile  in  girlish  wise. 
Full  many  a  time,  and  could  not  tell, 
So  blue  and  cloudless  were  your  eyes, 
If  any  thought  of  pain  might  dwell 
Within  that  tranquil  citadel. 

Then  comes  this  night,  when  you  are  wed, 
As  free  from  sorrow  as  from  guile, 


The  marriage-veil  is  on  your  head, 
And  on  your  lips  a  sudden  smile 
Makes  sunlight  down  the  sombre  aisle. 

But  life  is  richer  than  you  know, 

It  brings  us  sorrows  strange  and  deep, 

It  may  be  that  you  too  shall  grow 

Like  one  who  has  been  long  asleep, 

And    wakes    from    wistful    dreams    to    weep. 

And  when  your  hair  is  streaked  with  snow, 
But  more  with  sorrow  than  with  years, 
May  this  be  why  he  loves  you  so, 
Because,  in  spite  of  pains  and  fears, 
He  sees  you  smiling  through  your  tears. 

TO  TOLEDO 

Dear  city  of  the  shaded  streets,  beside  the  saltless 

sea, 

Catullus  sang  of  Sirmio,  and  I  will  sing  of  thee, 
The  river  front,  the  ships,  the  roofs  a-shimmer  in 

the  sun, 
The  happy  doorstep  gossiping  when  summer  days 

are  done! 
And  then  the  night,  the  tropic  night,  the  sudden 

cooling  rain, 
The  scurry  of  a  thousand  feet,  the  slamming  of  the 

pane; 

And  when  the  thunder  dies  away,  above  the  gleam- 
ing street, 
The  maples  murmur  melodies,  the  stars  are  shining 

sweet. 

I  love  thee  in  the  April  dawn,  when  dew  is  on  the 

ground, 

I  love  the  wakening  of  life,  the  carnival  of  sound, 
The  cable-cars  and  factories,  the  heaps  of  ruddy  ore, 
15 


The  schooners  heading  for  the  bay,  the  long  retreat- 
ing shore, 

The  autumn  winds,  the  rain  of  leaves,  the  winter's 
drifting  snow — 

But  best  of  all,  the  summer  nights  when  voices  mur- 
mur low; 

And  far  beyond  the  balconies  and  laughter  floating 
faint, 

The  frog's  eternal  orchestra  begins  the  old  com- 
plaint. 

Dear  city  of  the  shaded  streets,  beside  the  saltless 
sea, 

I  cannot  linger  by  the  door  where  love  began  for 
me, 

I  can  but  dream  beside  the  lamp  three  thousand 
miles  away, 

And  think  I  sit  again  with  her  at  closing  of  the  day. 

Again  I  hear  the  cooling  rain,  the  scurrying  of  feet ; 

The  maples  murmur  melodies,  the  stars  are  shin- 
ing sweet. 

FRIENDSHIP 

I  have  a  friend  who  loves  his  Greek 
Almost  as  much  as  I  love  him, 

And  when  he  comes  to  me  we  speak 
Of  epic  tales  or  legends  dim, 

Or  while  a  quiet  hour  away 
In  reading  the  Antigone. 

But  when  I  talk  of  meaner  things, 

Of  "mine"  and  "thine"  and  of  to-day, 

His  soul   takes  flight  on  viewless  wings, 
Back  through  the  ages  far  away, 

Afar  on  wistful  pinions  flies, 
Deep  in  the  blue  of  Attic  skies. 

16 


Dear  friend,  I  will  not  vex  your  mind 
With  matters  of  ignoble  worth, 

But  in  your  presence  strive  to  find 
The  secret  of  a  fairer  earth, 

Till  I  become  by  slow  degrees 
Orestes  to  your  Pylades. 

THE  WATCHER 

At  his  window  in  the  wall, 

Where  the  mottled  moonbeams  fall, 
Sits  the  watcher,  all  in  white, 

Sleepless    through    the    sleeping    night, 
While  the  turning  heavens  swim, 

And  the  distant  stars  are  dim, 
And  he  hears  the  solemn  swell 

Of  the  ivy-steepled  bell. 

Now  he  sees  the  creeping  mist, 

Paly,  powdered  amethyst, 
And  the  firefly 's  flitting  spark, 

Where  the  shadows  cluster  dark; 
Through  the  moonlight,  far  away, 

Hears  the  watchdog's  mellowed  bay, 
And  the  rumble  of  a  train — 

Then  the  echoes  sleep  again. 

With  unseeing  eyes  he  sees 

Mist  and  moon  and  brooding  trees, 
And  the  drowsy  sounds  he  hears 

Fall  unheeded  on  his  ears, 
While  he  longs  in  hopeless  pain 

For  the  dreams  of  youth  again, 
And  the  tolling  of  the  bell 

Deepens  sadly  to  a  knell. 


THE  OUTCAST 

Poor   mottled   leaper  o'er   the   wayside  stone, 
The  clown  of  reptiles,  and  a  scorn  of  men! 

I  see  thee  moving  in  the  dusk  alone, 
Nor  can  be  sure  until  I  look  again, 

So  like  thou  art,  in  undistinguished  grey, 

To  the  deep  dust  that  wraps  the  great  highway. 

And  thou  hast  lighted  in  thy  clumsy  fall 
With  patient,  blinking  gaze  upon  the  west, 

Where  now,  behind  a  cloud's  fantastic  wall, 
The  burning  summer  day  has  gone  to  rest, 

And  in  thy  little  eyes,  peculiar,  bright, 
The  deep  reflection  of  a  lambent  light. 

But  I  who  muse  upon  the  darkling  road 
Have  come  to  see  in  every  God-made  thing, 

From  the  great  ocean  to  this  little  toad, 
The  lesson  and  the  comfort  that  they  bring, 

And  growing  tenderer  with  aging  years, 
Am  moved  by  such  a  sight  as  this  to  tears. 

Tears  for  a  loveless  thing,  wherever  found, 
That  views  the  beauty  of  the  world  afar, 

Nor  ever  lifts  its  head  above  the  ground, 
Or  knows  the  truths  of  nature  as  they  are. 

And  still  He  marks  the  sparrow  in  its  fall, 
And  still  His  loving  care  is  over  all! 

CLOUDLAND 

Over  the  hills  at  the  close  of  day, 

Gazing  with  listless-seeming  eyes, 
Margery  watches  them  sail  away, 

The  sunset  clouds  of  the  western  skies. 


18 


Margery  sighs  with  a  vague  regret, 

As  slowly  they  fade  from  gold  to  grey, 

Till  night  has  come,  and  the  sun  has  set, 
And  the  clouds  have  drifted  beyond  the  day. 

What  are  you  dreaming,  my  little  maid? 

For  yours  are  beautiful  thoughts,  I  know. 
What  were  the  words  that  the  wild  wind  said, 

And  where  in  the  dark  did  the  cloud-ships  go? 

Come  through  the  window  and  touch  her  hair, 

Wind  of  the  vast  and  starry  deep! 
And  tell  her  not  of  this  old  world's  care, 

But  kiss  her  softly,  and  let  her  sleep. 

WATCH  THEREFORE 

In  Palestine  the  moonbeams  shine 

Upon  the  lonely  hill 
Where  shepherds  keep  their  drowsy  sheep, 

And  all  the  land  is  still. 

But  through  the  night  a  path  of  light 

Streams  out  across  the  way, 
And  servants  feast  until  the  east 

Gives  warning  of  the  day. 

"Full  many  a  year,  in  hope  and  fear, 

A  band  of  slavish  men, 
We  watch  for  him  with  eyes  grown  dim, 

He  will  not  come  again!" 

Far  away,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

I  hear  the  master  come, 
And  the  rhythmic  beat  of  his  horse's  feet, 

Nearer  and  nearer  home. 


But  no  one  waits  at  the  castle  gates, 

And  on  the  castle  floor 
The  sunlight  creeps,   while  the  porter  sleeps 

Till  his  Lord  is  at  the  door. 

THE  PESSIMIST 

I  would  I  could  feel  for  my  brothers, 
But  I  dwell  in  the  world  all  alone, 

And  know  not  the  sorrows  of  others, 
For  my  heart  is  as  hard  as  a  stone. 

Time  was  when  my  life  was  worth  living, 
Time  was  when  the  tinsel  was  gold, 

When  my  spirit  was  light  with  thanksgiving, 
And  steept  in  the  legends  of  old. 

I  could  weep  for  the  vanished  illusion, 
But  the  fountain  is  dried  at  the  source, 

And  I  see  but  a  world  of  confusion, 
And  the  march  of  malevolent  force. 

Ah,  well,  I  have  reached  the  last  pages, 
Life  turns  them  with  fingers  grown  cold, 

Ere  she  closes  the  book  for  all  ages, 
A  prey  to  the  dust  and  the  mould. 

We  shall  lie  in  the  dark  without  number, 
While  the  cycles  of  time  crumble  on. 

What  voice  shall  awake  those  that  slumber, 
What  magical  fingers  of  dawn? 


20 


MOONLIGHT 

'T  was  Sunday  night,  the  last  sweet  hymn  was  sung : 
"Father,  again  to  thy  dear  name  we  raise — " 

The  benediction  said,  forthwith  outrung 
The  organ  postlude,  mighty  as  the  praise 

Of  angel  hosts  upon  celestial  ways. 

The  warlike  Gloria  of  Mozart's  Mass 
The  organist  upbuilds  by  swift  degrees, 

Now  soft  as  falling  leaves  upon  the  grass, 
Again  in  volume  like  the  noisy  seas 

That  thunder  on  the  rugged  Hebrides. 

Now  all  are  gone,  and  still  he  softly  plays, 
Dreaming  upon  the  keys  in  poet  wise, 

Knowing  full  well  how  Margery  delays, 
Just  where  the  shadow  by  the  doorway  lies, 

With  love's  deep  yearning  in  her  hazel  eyes. 

Until  at  last,  within  the  rafters'  height, 
The  eerie  echoes  die  upon  the  gloom; 

The  sexton  turns  the  one  remaining  light, 
The  church  is  silent  as  a  lonely  tomb, 

Where  sleepers  wait  their  glory  or  their  doom. 

With  gentle  confidence  she  takes  his  arm — 
Of  village  gossips  there  is  none  to  see — 

Down  the  dark  road  they  pass  without  alarm, 
Softly  enwrapped  in  subtle  reverie. 

Until  they  reach  the  shelter  of  a  tree, 

It  is  a  drowsy  night  in  early  June, 

And  faint  the  breath  from  unseen  blossoms  blown 
Lulls  every  thought,  until,  as  in  a  swoon, 

All  consciousness  of  time  and  place  has  flown, 
They  dwell  in  some  far  fairyland  alone. 


21 


And  while  they  dream,  within  the  distant  east 
A  dawning  glory  toward  the  zenith  thrills, 

The  red  and  silent  Moon,  love's  lonely  Priest, 
Mounts  slowly  upward,  till  his  splendour  fills 

The  sleeping  valleys  and  the  brooding  hills. 

They  hear  the  rising  wind  among  the  trees, 
Like  waves  that  murmur  on  a  distant  shore 

Washed  by  the  azure  depths  of  sleepy  seas, 
And  careless  what  the  future  has  in  store, 

They  fain  would  sail  in  dreams  forevermore. 

It  may  not  be,  for  now  the  village  bell 

Tolls  out  the  midnight  chime  with  measured  beat, 
The  solemn  echoes  break  the  magic  spell, 

The  vision  vanishes  on  pinions  fleet, 
Sadly  their  trembling  lips  at  parting  meet. 

He  leaves  her  at  her  door  and  turns  away, 

And  still  as  onward  through  the  night  he  goes, 

Through  every  sense  he  feels  her  subtle  sway, 
Her  sweetness  like  the  fragrance  of  a  rose, 

Her  kiss  that  still  upon  his  forehead  glows. 

Then  to  his  heart  there  creeps  a  sudden  chill, 
The  moonlight  which  of  late  made  fairyland, 

Sleeps  drear  and  sinister  upon  the  hill, 

He  hears  strange  voices  where  the  elm  trees  stand, 

Dim,  ghostly  whisperers  on  either  hand. 

Pursued  by  haunting  fears  he  gains  the  way 
That  leads  him  southward  toward  the  city's  light, 

Above,  the  golden  moon  has  turned  to  gray, 
Ere  he  has  won  at  length  his  window's  height, 

And  knelt  in  silence  to  outwatch  the  night. 


22 


A  LOVE  LETTER 

When  you  are  dust,  and  I  am  dust, 

And  time  has  passed  away, 
What  profit  that  in  sudden  pride 

You  kissed  me  not  to-day? 
When  you  are  dust,  and  I  am  dust, 

Our  spirits  in  the  wind 
Will  wander  weary  through  the  world 

For  love  they  cannot  find. 

Or  if,  perchance,  in  whirl  of  snow, 

Upon  some  lonely  hill, 
Our  frustrate  spirits  meet  and  know, 

And  shudder,  and  are  still, 
What  power  to  sooth  our  ceaseless  pain, 

What  hands  or  lips  or  eyes, 
Before,  forever  torn  in  twain, 

Our  hope  forever  dies? 

So  when  I  come  to  you  to-night 

I  pray  that  at  the  door 
I  find  you  standing  warm  and  bright, 

As  you  have  stood  before; 
I  pray  you  let  me  kiss  again 

Your  hands  and  lips  and  eyes. 
For  us,  the  life  of  love,  and  then 

The  death  that  never  dies! 

RETROSPECT 

'Tis  not  the  burden  of  my  sin 

That  binds  my  soul  in  dumb  distress, 

But  that  my  heart  is  cold  within; 
I  would  I  had  sinned  more  —  or  less. 


For  while  to-night  I  walk  alone, 
With  flaring  torch  among  the 

23 


I  read  the  lines  the  years  have  strown, 
Above  their  dark  and  silent  rooms. 

I  see  the  lessons  I  have  learned 

As  epitaphs  upon  the  soul, 
The  ashes  of  the  fires  that  burned, 

The  shadow  of  the  un-won  goal. 

I've  learned  to  put  the  purpose  by, 
In  fear  of  cold  and  loneliness — 

Too  steep  the  road,  the  prize  too  high — 
I've  learned  to  wait  and  acquiesce. 

Thus  for  a  space  I  linger  yet, 

And  watch  the  slowly  dying  light: 

A  little  while  I  must  forget, 

And  sleep  the  sleep  of  yesternight. 

TWILIGHT  IN  SAN  PABLO  VALLEY 

Cold  is  the  sleeping  mountain, 

And  cold  is  the  setting  sun, 
And  grey  is  the  road  that  climbs  and  climbs, 

Till  the  distant  heights  are  won. 
I  hear  a  drowsy  murmur, 

And  the  note  of  a  lonely  bird, 
And  a  faint  wind  sighs  in  the  darkling  skies, 

Like  the  ghost  of  a  whispered  word. 

And  Fear  is  in  the  valley, 

It  comes  with  the  creeping  night, 
The  fear  of  the  Sphinx-like  mountains, 

The  fear  of  the  keen  starlight, 
The  fear  of  a  Spirit  moving 

In  the  breeze's  monotone, 
The  fear  of  God  in  the  darkness, 

Who  speaks  with  the  soul  alone. 


24 


BREKEKEKEX  KOAX  KOAX 

The  moon  is  low  in  the  sky, 

And  the  wind  is  low  in  the  trees, 
And  the  frogs  are  trilling  high 

Their   marshy   melodies; 
And  I  think  of  another  night, 

So  many  years  ago, 
When  the  moon  was  shining  bright, 

And  the  wind  was  blowing  low. 

I  stood  by  the  dreary  pool, 

At  the  end  of  the  silent  street, 
And  the  grass  was  soft  and  cool 

To  my  bare,  unfettered  feet; 
I  heard  the  marsh-song  trill, 

And  my  waiting  soul  was  dumb, 
As  up  the  misty  hill 

I  saw  the  Marsh  King  come. 

TO  A  FLIRT 

'Twas  just  a  glance  when  first  we  met, 

Our  insincerity  began; 
To  play  at  loving,  and  forget, 

Was  then  our  plan. 

We'd  often  played  the  game  before, 
The  game  To  Love  and  then  Forget, 

Perhaps  we  thought,  "  'Tis  one  fool  more 
Within  the  net." 

And  we  were  artists  in  our  way, 

We  knew  the  moves  and  made  the  signs 

Without  the  hurry  or  delay 
Of  other  times; 


Without  the  tears,  with  hearts  unfired 
By  fierce  delight  or  jealous  pain; 

We  both  loved  love,  but  were  too  tired 
To  love  again. 

So  by  the  shore,  or  at  the  play, 
Or  when  the  sun  was  in  the  west, 

We  knew  the  proper  thing  to  say, 
And  stood  the  test. 

To-night,  upon  the  moonlit  hill, 

I  held  you  softly  in  my  arm, 
And  there  you  lay,  demure  and  still, 

Nor  thought  of  harm, 

And  there  I  smoothed  your  hair  away, 

And    while    you    watched    the    stars    above 

I  kissed  you,  and  forgot  to  play, 
And  spoke  of  love. 

But  you  were  wise  enough  for  two, 
And  laughed  that  I  should  lose  so  soon, 

You  found  a  kindly  thing  to  do, 
And  blamed  the  Moon. 

'Twas  more  than  folly,  less  than  sin, 

And  I've  forgotten  to  forget; 
I  will  not  be  what  I  have  been, 

Since  first  we  met! 

So  when  I  come  to  you  again, 

I  pray  that  you  will  be  less  wise, 

And  let  me  read  an  answer  plain, 
Within  your  eyes. 

If  I  be  more  to  you  to-night 

Than  when,  at  first,  I  played  a  part, 

26 


I'll  know  the  message,  mirrored  bright, 
Of  heart  to  heart. 

Or  if  you  will  that  I  be  less 
Than  I  have  been  to  you  before, 

You  need  not  speak,  for  I  can  guess, 
And  come  no  more. 

ON  THE  MARCH 

Down  the  canon  of  the  street, 

Hear  the  muffled  marching  feet! 
Hear  the  thousand-throated  hum, 

As  the  soldiers  nearer  come! 
Eagerly  the  people  crowd: 

Faintly  now,  and  now  more  loud, 
While  we  listen,  breathless,  dumb, 

Comes  the  droning  of  the  drum: 
Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 
Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 

Rika-tek  tek  tek 

Rika-tek  tek  tek 
Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 

Marching  down  the  western  light, 

Bursts  the  column  on  our  sight! 
Through  the  myriad  golden  motes, 

Splendidly  our  banner  floats! 
Then  the  sudden-swelling  cheer, 

Voicing  all  we  hold  most  dear, 
Wondrous,  welling  wave  of  sound, 

Till  the  whirring  drum  is  drownd ! 
Still  our  pulses  beat  in  time 

To  the  rhythmic  roll  sublime: 
Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 
Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 

Rika-tek  tek  tek 

Rika-tek  tek  tek 

Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 
27 


Now  the  marching  men  have  passed, 

We  have  watched  them  to  the  last, 
Till  the  column  disappears, 

In  a  mist  of  sudden  tears. 
Loves  and  hates  before  unguessed 

Tremble  in  the  troubled  breast, 
Loves  and  hates  and  hopes  and  fears, 

Waking  from  the  sleep  of  years, 
At  our  country's  calling  come, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  drum : 
Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 
Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 

Rika-tek  tek  tek 

Rika-tek  tek  tek 
Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 

So  the  night  comes  on  apace, 

Settles  on  each  solemn  face, 
While  we  pray  with  hearts  of  fire, 

While  a  wistful,  wild  desire 
Follows  where  the  dangers  are, 

Where  the  battles  blaze  afar, 
Till  our  heroes  homeward  come, 

And  we  hear  the  victor  drum: 
Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 
Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 

Rika-tek  tek  tek 

Rika-tek  tek  tek 
Rika-tek,  rika-tek,  rika-tek  tek  tek, 

BY  THE  BROOK  SIDE 

Were  I  a  midget  manikin, 

A-floating  down  the  stream, 
Upon  a  little  piece  of  bark, 

How  dreadful  it  would  seem ! 
This  babbling  brook  would  be  to  me 

The  swirling  of  a  mighty  sea, 
28 


If  I  should  be  so  small  and  thin, 
A  fairy  midget  manikin. 

Although  my  years  are  twenty-three, 

And  I  so  wise  have  grown, 
Such  fancies  often  visit  me, 

When  by  the  brook  alone: 
The  hamadryads  haunt  the  trees, 

And   Pan  comes  dancing  down  the  breeze, 
Again  I  am,  as  I  have  been, 

A  fairy  midget  manikin. 

THE  DREAM 

Deep  in  the  autumn  night  my  Love  awoke, 
Put  out  her  hand  to  know  if  I  were  near; 

I  waited  in  the  silence  till  she  spoke, 
Her  voice  to  me  how  dear! 

"I  hear  the  children  singing  in  the  night, 
And  down  the  aisle  I  see  the  censer  swing, 

I  see  a  great  procession,  all  in  white, 
And  hear  the  church  bells  ring." 

"The  children  long  ago  have  gone  to  sleep, 

You  only  hear  the  breeze's  low  refrain, 
You  only  see  the  milky  moonlight  creep 
Across  the  window-pane." 

She  smiled,  and  nestled  close  against  my  breast, 
And  while  I  wondered  such  sweet  dreams  could 
be, 

The  mellow  autumn  moon  had  gone  to  rest 
Beyond  the  western  sea. 


29 


NEBULAE  OF  SONG 

Dim  nebulae  of  song! 
First,  a  cold  star-dust  in  the  spirit's  void, 

Whirling    with    measured    sweep    the    shadows 

through, 

Then  more  compact,  centripetal,  and  strong, 
Swifter  and  surer  and  of  warmer  hue! 

Thy  brothers  wait  thee  in  the  blue  above, 
Far  through  the  silences  their  songs  descend ; 

Thou  too  shalt  join  their  ancient  choir  of  love, 
And  send  thy  light  across  the  paths  of  men. 

Now  the  faint  music  of  the  early  dawn, 

Feeling  its  way  with  broken  chords  and  slow, 

Then  the  C  Major,  resolute  and  strong, 

Moving  in  conscious  strength  the  measures  go. 

But  thou,  dim  dust,  that  trailest  through  the  night, 
Breasting  the  waves  of  that  unsounded  sea, 

Swift  be  the  course  of  the  triumphant  flight, 
And  sweet  thy  music  in  the  years  to  be ! 

THE  THREE  PILGRIMS 

"What  good  thing  has  life  given  each, 

Now  at  our  journey's  end? 
To  me,  the  goal  of  fame  to  reach, 

And  one  to  call  me  friend." 

"To  me,  the  knowledge  of  the  past 

Has  given  of  precious  store, 
And  I  have  come  to  know  at  last 

The  great  who  are  no  more." 


"But  I  have  heard,  when  bowed  my  head 

By  bitter  pain  and  loss, 
The  words  of  comfort  He  has  said, 

Who  died  upon  the  cross. " 

TO  AN  AMERICAN-MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN 

You,  in  the  climbing  San  Francisco  street, 
With  sun-burned  cheek,  and  easy,  open  blouse, 

Showing  a  glimpse  of  broad  and  burnished  breast, 
Supple  in  movement  and  of  rolling  gait, 

A  living  lyric  of   Manila  Bay! 

I  note  the  willowy,  athletic  build, 

The  tangled  hair  that  peeps  beneath  your  cap, 
The  free,  bold  glance,  like  any  truant  boy 

Escaped  the  humdrum  of  the  school  to-day, 
To  wander  with  his  mates  about  the  town. 

Out  in  the  Bay  your  ship  at  anchor  lies, 
Straining  her  cables  in  the  swelling  tides, 

The  guns  all  canvassed,  and  the  decks  swept  clean, 
And  some  few  left  on  guard;  while  you,  ashore, 

Live  the  great  day  that  you  have  dreamed  of  long, 
For  weary  months,  beneath  unfriendly  stars. 

And  now,  how  free  from  any  thought  of  fame, 
Or  that  black  tragedy  which  waits  on  war! 

I  see  you  roving  through  the  roaring  streets, 
Spending  your  money  with  a  drunken  grace, 

Simple  and  brave,  heroic,  weak,  and  free! 

The  mystery  of  the  sailor's  life  is  yours, 
The  same  sweet  mystery  that  in  days  of  old 

Haunted  the  Spaniards  in  their  daring  ways, 
In  search  of  El  Dorado  and  its  gold, 

In  search  of  that  bright  spring  of  living  youth 
That  flashed  far  off  beyond  the  beckoning  foam. 

31 


But  we,  grown  practical  in  these  cold  days, 
Study  the  strange  old  tales  in  learned  books. 

You  tell  the  story  in  your  open  face, 
The  tale  of  cities  far  in  desert  wastes, 

The  tale  of  ghosts  upon  the  windy  deck, 
St.  Elmo's  fire,  and  terrors  of  the  deep. 

And  now,  farewell,  brave  sailor  of  the  seas! 

I  to  my  duties  turn  with  lagging  step ; 
You,  free  and  fearless  as  in  early  days, 

Roam  the  great  deep  and  win  our  country's  fights, 
The  rich,  romantic  life  of  love  and  war. 

Yet  often,  in  the  dust  of  crowded  streets, 

I  once  again  shall  see  you  roll  along, 
With  open  hand,  and  open  heart,  and  song; 
And  lifting  weary  eyes  to  that  pure  sky, 

So  blue  and  cool  above  the  city's  walls, 
My  soul  shall  know  the  same  unfettered  joy 

That  thrilled  me  once  upon  a  summer  day, 
When  first  I  saw  the  ocean  stretch  away 

To  meet  the  sky,  and  all  the  world  was  young. 

Then,  like  Magellan  on  his  lonely  deck, 

Watching  the  steady  stars  with  poet's  eyes, 
I  too  shall  hear  the  swashing  of  the  waves 

Against  the  foaming  bow  that  cuts  the  night; 
And  day  by  day  shall  see  the  horizon  edge 

With  nought  to  break  its  everlasting  line, 
The  perfect  circle  of  the  watery  world, 

Till,  like  a  vision,  on  some  quiet  morn, 
The  roofs  of  China  dream  against  the  sky! 


OFT  IN  THE  MORNING 

Oft  in  the  morning  when  I  sit  me  down 

With  learned  book,  and  mean  to  labour  well, 
When  from  the  coolness  of  my  early  bath 

My  body  is  a  temple  of  repose, 
And  when  my  pipe  is  fragrance  and  delight, 

There  comes  upon  a  sudden  to  my  mind 
A  thought  of  that  great  world  beyond  my  room, 

The  open  road,  the  sun  and  blowing  wind, 
The  music  and  the  mystery  of  life. 

The  book  becomes  a  husk  of  empty  words, 
For  I  have  heard  the  wagons  in  the  street, 

The  venders'  cries,  melodious  and  strong, 
The  crowing  of  the  cocks  in  distant  barns, 

The  shouting  of  the  children  at  their  play ; 
And  grandly  then  a  picture  of  the  world 
Comes  floating  in  upon  my  waiting  soul. 

I  know  the  bay  spreads  tranquilly  afar, 
To  meet  the  purple  slopes  of  Tamalpais, 

I  see  the  Berkeley  houses  dot  the  hills, 

White  as  a  group  of  spotted  dice  outthrown 

From  some  great  hand  that  left  them  there  in  play; 
And  many  whirring  windmills  fleck  the  sky, 

And  blur  the  blue  and  hum  a  droning  song. 

So,  when  I  feel  the  breeze  upon  my  breast, 

And  drink  delight  with  every  sparkling  breath, 
Ah,  what  to  me  are  Grecians,  Romans,  bards, 

All  peoples  that  have  tasted  joy  and  died? 
The  passion  of  mere  living  now  is  mine, 

As  if  I  looked  the  first  upon  the  light, 
As  if  I  had  been  born  this  very  day, 

Nor  ever  had  seen  anything  before, 
Or  heard  the  music  of  the  morning  wind  ; 

So  wonderfully  fresh  the  feel  of  life, 
So  beautiful  the  world  that  is  my  home! 
33 


DISILLUSION 

I  read  in  some  quaint  wonder-book 

The  legend  of  a  miser  grim, 
Who  by  the  means  called  "hook  or  crook" 

Did  fleece  the  folk  that  trusted  him. 

But  when  the  miser  came  to  die, 

And  when  his  heirs  would  count  the  gold, 
A  heap  of  withered  leaves  and  dry 

Is  all  that  his  great  coffers  hold. 

So  when  I  turn  me  to  my  book, 
To  count  the  treasures  of  my  mind, 

Some  witch's  wand  has  changed  their  look, 
And  withered  leaves  is  all  I  find. 

THE  NORTH  WIND  IN  CALIFORNIA 

Now,  to  the  wonder  of  the  waiting  night, 

The  arid  North  comes  stealing  o'er  the  hills, 
First  in  slow  puffs,  and  then  the  whole  house  thrills 

With  steady  blows  of  that  mysterious  might. 
How  strange  to  hear,  beneath  the  hot  starlight, 

The  same  wild  note  that  comes  with  driven  snows 
Against  New  England  panes,  where  warmly  glows 

The  dark  green  holly  and  its  berries  bright! 
And  what  the  meaning  of  the  wild  refrain, 

And   what   the   message   that   the   North   Wind 

brings? 
It  sings  of  cactus  on  a  desert  plain, 

Of    bones    that    bleach    beside    the    sand-choked 

springs, 
Of  strange,  red  mountains,  unrefreshed  by  rain, 

A  land  of  gruesome  and  forgotten  things. 


34 


THE  WILD  DUCKS   OF  ILLINOIS 

0  swift  wild  ducks  that  northward  flew 
Across  the  skies  of  Illinois, 

When  April  came,  and  life  was  new 
With  sweet,  unconscious  joys, 

How  wistfully,  these  later  days, 
Among  the  haunts  of  alien  men, 

1  search  in  vain  the  trackless  ways, 
To  find  your  trail  again! 

For  often,  in  that  little  town, 

When  all  the  world  was  wet  with  dew, 
A  faint,  wild  cry  came  dropping  down, 

From  out  the  liquid  blue, 

And  looking  from  the  open  door, 

I  watched  you  wing  your  steady  flight, 

Till  your  long  lines  were  seen  no  more, 
Within  the  dizzy  height. 

Then  all  the  golden  summer  days 

My  truant  thoughts  would  northward  roam, 
And  wait  the  autumn's  purple  haze, 

And  you,  returning  home, 

Your  tireless  columns  backward  spread, 
To  pierce  the  waves  of  day  and  night, 

Your  leader  straining  on  ahead, 
In  his  unerring  flight. 

And  when  the  night  was  still  and  dark, 

I  saw  you  blot  the  starlit  sky, 
And  paused  upon  the  road  to  mark 

Your  sweet,  discordant  cry, 


35 


As  one  who  stands  upon  the  shore, 

And  sends  his  heart  with  ships  that  sail 

Across  the  seas,  to  come  no  more 
Upon  the  homeward  trail. 

THE  SAILOR'S  RETURN 

The  boats  are  turning  up  the  silent  river, 

And  there  are  tender  meetings  on  the  shore, 
But  I  shall  see  her  by  the  willow  never, 
Nevermore. 

0  winds  that  waft  me  to  the  dim  Hereafter, 
Still  sing  your  siren  songs  as  oft  before, 

And    through    the   starlight   bring   the   low,   sweet 
laughter 

From  the  shore. 

And  though  no  more  for  me  at  my  returning 

Will  shine  those  eyes  with  mystic  light  divine, 
Though  I  shall  never  feel  her  dear  hand  burning, 
Claspt  in  mine, 

Let  no  man  dream  I  think  not  for  my  brothers, 
For  since  I  am  bereaved  by  His  great  will, 

1  feel  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  others 

Deeper  still. 

And  when  from  my  last  voyage  unreturning, 

My  bark  is  borne  upon  the  rolling  surge, 
Beyond  the  stars  in  tender  pity  yearning 
At  the  verge, 

Though  now  grown  old  with  years  of  weary  rang- 
ing, 
Through    scudding    tempests    and    the    breakers' 

roar, 

I  know  she  waits  me  with  a  love  unchanging, 
On  the  shore. 

36 


SONNETS  OF  BURIED  NIPPUR 

The  Man 

Reeling  away  beneath  the  brazen  skies, 

The  giant  tempest,  black  with  stinging  sands 
Pauses  and  breaks  and  falls  with  whirling  hands 

Upon  the  mound  where  buried  Nipper  lies. 
There  the  long  sleep;  above,  the  lidless  eyes 

Of  stars  cold-gazing  on  the  race  of  man: 
There,  where  the  drama  of  the  world  began, 

The  lights  are  out  and  all  the  music  dies. 
Four  thousand  years  before  the  sons  of  Greece 

Pillared  the  hills  beyond  the  azure  sea, 
Lugalzaggisi  forced  his  fearful  peace 

Upon  a  world  that  cowered  at  his  knee, 
Lugalzaggisi,  first  in  power  and  fame — 

The  patient  scholars  have  unearthed  his  name. 

The  God 

When  Turgu  reigned,  and  Abraham  was  dead 

A  thousand  years,  the  revellers  in  a  hall 
Above  the  buried  Nippur  heard  a  fall 

Of  masonry,  and  their  loud  laughter  fled. 
With  flaring  torch  the  trembling  menials  led 

A  wondering  way  adown  a  broken  stair, 
Beat  back  the  darkness  of  the  stagnant  air, 

Where  Sargon  slept  upon  his  crumbling  bed. 
And  far  below,  within  a  deeper  gloom, 

They  came  upon  the  great  god  Bel  alone, 
Ruling  sole  sovereign  in  a  little  room, 

Whom  once  the  World   had   scarce   sufficed   to 

throne. 
Silent  they  stood  within  the  echoing  tomb, 

Frozen  before  those  sightless  eyes  of  stone. 


37 


ALONG  THE  BAY  SHORE 

The  broad  yellow  waters  stretch  dimmer  and  dim- 
mer 
From  the  shore  with  its  long-fringed  mantle  of 

green, 
And   I   watch   the  strong  form  of  the  forthgoing 

swimmer, 
The  sea  and  the  sky  and  the  lighthouse  between. 

I  see  his  white  body  sink  lower  and  lower, 
Till  only  his  shoulders  reflect  the  red  sun, 

His  tentative  steps  ever  slower  and  slower 

Through  westering  breezes  that  ripple  and  run. 

I  see  a  great  ship  to  the  harbor  returning, 
A  streperous  tug  with  a  bone  in  its  mouth, 

And  crossing  a  cloud  iridescent  and  burning, 
The  wild  duck  awing  for  his  home  in  the  south. 

MY  HEART  HATH  SUNG  OF  THEE 

My  heart  hath  sung  of  thee, 
All  the  soft  hours  of  the  slumbrous  day, 
As  through  the  arch  of  tree  and  tree, 
'Mid   Springtime's  wooing  volubility, 
One  fuller,  more  insistent  note, 
From  unseen,  love-pained  throat, 
Comes  down  the  leafy  way. 

Here,  hour  by  heedless  hour, 
Upon  the  moss-stained  fence  I  lean, 
And  wonder  at  the  sudden  shower 
Of  blossoms  on  the  rippling  green, 
And  watch  the  hand  of  God  unfold 
The  poppy  and  the  marigold. 


The  rose  is  lovely,  and  the  fleur  de  lis, 
And  apple  blossoms  dear  to  thee  and  me ; 
But  now  I  choose  those  richer-coloured  flowers, 
Lifting  gold  faces  to  the  golden  hours. 
My  fancy  is  robust  as  they:  one  sweet,  warm  kiss 
Befits  a  day  like  this! 

THE  BATTLE-LINE 

Lonely  I  lie  upon  the  sodden  sands, 
Stunned  by  the  steady,  cannonading  roar 
Of  rushing  ranks  that  reach  along  the  shore 
The  ghostly  menace  of  despairing  hands. 
What  grim  resolves,  whose  merciless  commands, 
Still  drive  you  on  in  unimagined  might, 
Through  countless  centuries  of  day  and  night, 
To  pour  your  battle  on  the  stubborn  lands? 
Far,  far  away,  the  careless  hosts  of  men, 
In  lonely  house  or  many-streeted  town, 
Sleep  in  their  simple  faith  secure,  nor  ken 
On  what  another  sight  the  moon  looks  down. 
But  here  I  see  the  maddened  foes  entwine 
Along  the  world's  unending  battle-line. 

THE  TRUCE 

High  noon,  and  peace,  and  wide-flung  window  pane 
Framing  a  square  of  land  and  sea  and  sky ; 
Somewhere,  a  meadow-lark's  ecstatic  cry 
Piercing  the  stillness  with  its  thin  refrain. 
The  sparse,   pale   grasses  ripple  toward   the  main, 
The  winding  sands  a  yellow  pathway  gleam, 
Beyond,  the  ocean's  fleck'd  and  flashing  stream, 
And  then  the  blue,  unmarred  by  cloud  or  stain ! 
Last  night  I  lay  as  facing  furious  foes 
That  swept  the  ramparts  with  a  savage  roar, 
And  dreamed  of  final  cataclysmic  woes, 
The  world  o'erwhelmed  beyond  the  beaten  shore. 
And  can  this  peaceful,  sparkling  river  be 
That  mighty,  menacing,  remorseless  sea? 
39 


THE  ESTADEA* 

A  white  mist  rose  from  out  the  sea, 
The  sullen  sun  sank  all  too  soon, 

The  level  moor  stretched  endlessly 
Beneath  the  rising  moon. 

Three  watchers  stood  as  shadows  stand, 
When  no  wind  moves  across  the  sky, 

They  saw  the  mists  on  either  hand 
Come  stealing  softly  by. 

Like  Stardust  drifting  overhead, 

They  saw  a  thousand  dancing  lights, 

The  candles  of  the  ancient  dead 
Who  walk  in  autumn  nights. 

From  George  Borrow's  "The  Bible  in  Spain,"  pp. 
422-3.     Guide: 

"What  do  I  mean  by  the  Estadea?  My  master 
asks  me  what  I  mean  by  the  Estadinha*  I  have 
met  the  Estadinha  but  once,  and  it  was  upon  a 
moor  something  like  this.  I  was  in  company  with 
several  women,  and  a  thick  haze  came  on,  and  sud- 
denly a  thousand  lights  shone  above  our  heads  in 
the  haze,  and  there  was  a  wild  cry,  and  the  women 
fell  to  the  ground  screaming,  'Estadea!  Estadea!' 
And  I  myself  fell  to  the  ground  crying  out,  Esta- 
dinha!' The  Estadea  are  the  spirits  of  the  dead 
which  ride  upon  the  haze,  bearing  candles  in  their 
hands.  I  tell  you  frankly,  my  master,  that  if  we 
meet  the  assembly  of  the  souls,  I  shall  leave  you 
at  once,  and  then  I  shall  run  and  run  till  I  drown 
myself  in  the  sea,  somewhere  about  Muros." 


*Estadinha — diminutive. — Note  by  Editor. 
40 


Ah,  woe  to  those  that  chance  to  meet 

The  Estadea  passing  by, 
Who  wander  with  unburied  feet 

Between  the  earth  and  sky! 

Ah,  woe  to  those  that  chance  to  stray 
At  night  upon  the  lonely  shore, 

For  never  do  they  see  the  day, 
And  they  are  seen  no  more. 

The  white  mist  passed  from  out  the  sea, 
Across  the  moor  and  up  the  hill, 

The  risen  moon  shone  drearily, 
And  all  the  land  was  still. 

LOVE  IN  APRIL 

We  met  at  dawn  of  day, 
In  an  April  long  ago, 
When  the  lilac  bush  was  gay, 
And  the  apple  boughs  were  snow, 
And  Love,  in  April's  guise, 
Lured  us  on  with  April's  wile, 
For  her  rain  was  in  your  eyes, 
And  her  sunlight  in  your  smile. 

We  parted  long  ago, 

In  an  agony  of  pride, 

When  the  world  was  white  with  snow — 

Ah,  the  bitter  world  was  wide! 

Till  I  sent  a  little  song, 

Like  a  dove  across  the  sea, 

And  the  silent  days  were  long, 

But  it  came  again  to  me. 

O  sweet  and  far  away, 
Whom  I  have  loved  so  well^ 
My  heart  is  glad  to  day, 

41 


With  a  joy  it  cannot  tell, 
For  your  love  has  come  at  last, 
With  the  ships  across  the  sea, 
And  the  Aprils  of  the  past 
Are  the  life  that  is  to  be. 

COME  NOT,  FAIR  SPRING! 

Come  not,  fair  Spring,  come  not  as  yet 

To  drive  the  snows  away, 

And  bid  my  truant  heart  forget 

The  vows  of  yesterday; 

For  much  I  fear  your  winning  eyes, 

Your  fragrant  hair  afloat, 

The  witchery  of  your  surprise, 

The  languor  of  your  throat. 

IVe  walked  with  Winter,  many  days, 

And  braved  his  boisterous  moods, 

And  learned  to  love  his  epic  lays, 

His  shrilling  interludes; 

And  will  you  come  to  bid  me  rest, 

Before  my  strength  is  spent, 

To  love  your  laughing  lyrics  best, 

Inglorious  and  content? 

The  last  white  flake  is  but  a  tear 

Upon  the  window  pane, 

I  fling  the  casement  wide  and  hear 

The  unfamiliar  rain, 

The  river  rushing  to  the  sea, 

The  blackbird  screaming  high, 

A  whisper  in  the  apple  tree, 

And  know  that  you  are  nigh. 

Oh  come  fair  Spring,  oh  come  at  last, 
And  drive  the  snows  away! 
Too  long  IVe  battled  with  the  blast, 
And  I  would  rest  to-day; 
42 


I  hear  your  step  upon  the  hill, 
Your  laughter  in  the  rain, 
And  can  my  heart  be  recreant  still, 
When  you  have  come  again? 

TO  COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY 

Columbia,  our  mother  fair, 

Above  the  city's  smoke  and  roar, 

I  thrill  to  see  thee  standing  there, 
Upon  thy  hills  forevermore! 

Presiding  Spirit  of  our  youth, 

Within  thy  temple's  pillar'd  height 

Thy  sons  shall  learn  the  way  of  truth, 
And  burn  to  battle  for  the  right. 

Not  such  as  once  in  Samothrace, 

The   sculptor  wrought   of   gleaming   stone, 
The  Nikee  of  a  warlike  race, 

With  garments  by  the  tempest  blown ; 

A  wiser  Victory  be  thou ! 

A  Victory  in  civic  strife, 
To  smite  Corruption  down,  nor  bow 

Before  the  stress  of  modern  life. 

And  standing  there,  serene  and  pure, 
Where  countless  homes  thy  vision  greet, 

While  that  great,  troubled  life  endure, 
And  surge  about  thy  steadfast  feet, 

Thou  still  shalt  point  the  wiser  way, 
Thou  still  shalt  turn  from  little  things, 

Thine  eyes  upon  the  coming  day, 
Its  light  upon  thy  lifted  wings! 


43 


I  STOOD  IN  DREAMS  BESIDE  THE  GATE 

I  stood  in  dreams  beside  the  gate, 

Where'er  that  gate  may  be, 

Where  souls  released  from  earth's  estate 

Pass  on  eternally 
From  out  this  whirl  of  strife  and  hate, 

On   death's  untroubled   sea. 

From  battle-field,  and  flood,  and  fire, 
And  lingering  beds  of  pain, 
Purged   of   importunate   desire, 
And  white  without  a  stain, 
I  saw  them  pass,  an  endless  choir, 
Hymning  a  glad  refrain. 

The  aged  man,  his  youth  renewed, 

The  child  with  wondering  eyes, 

The   youth    with    flaming   hopes   endued, 

Seeking  a  high  emprise, 

Winging  in  happy  certitude 

The  pathway  of  the  skies. 

METEMPSYCHOSIS 

So  many  lives  unlived, 
And  half  this  brief  course  run, 
So  many  joys  untasted, 
So  many  deeds  undone, 
So  little  time  for  living, 
Snatched  from  the  toil  of  life, 
And  for  the  heart's  outgiving, 
Shut  from  the  noise  and  strife! 

Only  to  live  on  earth, 
When  this  dear  life  is  done, 
To  view  again,  a  mortal, 
The  great,  immortal  sun, 

44 


Ever  to  earth  returning, 
Like  day  that  follows  day, 
With  clearer  eyes  discerning 
The  Poet  and  his  Play! 

THE  PRISON  BUILDERS 

In  youth  we  rear  with  walls  of  fire 
The  mansion  of  our  heart's  desire, 
The  towers  are  all  of  moonlight  made, 
Rising  above  the  darker  shade; 
And  through  the  open  windows  see 
The  world — a  wondrous  pageantry! 

Each  year  we  build  the  house  again, 
More  like  the  homes  of  other  men, 
Strengthen    the    frame    with    bolt    and    beam, 
And  learn  to  scorn  the  early  dream, 
Grow  wise  at  last,  and  shut  the  door, 
And  think  of  former  loves  no  more. 

And  after  many  years  are  flown, 
And  we  are  grey  in  service  grown, 
The  earlier  vision  lures  in  vain; 
We  only  see  an  endless  train 
Of  petty  duties  passing  by, 
Throwing  their  dust  against  the  sky. 

O  Thou  who  dids't  from  day  to  day 
Travel  with  men  the  common  way, 
'Tis  not  by  sin  we  lose  Thy  path, 
But  by  life's  daily  toil  and  scath, 
And  wearily  we  build  the  bars 
That  hide  thine  immemorial  stars. 


45 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  NIGHT 

Sweet  children  of  the  far,  forgotten  spaces, 
Dear  children  of  my  fancy  long  since  dead, 
Who  rise  again  with  wan,  reproachful  faces, 
Tonight,  about  my  bed, 

When  sin  is  slain  and  folly  is  forgiven, 
And  eyes  are  dry  that  once  with  tears  were  wet, 
Why  do  you  come  to  one  in  mercy  shriven, 
Bringing  an  old  regret? 

I  knew  not  that  our  hearts  were  cleft  asunder 
Till  suddenly  a  silence  seemed  to  fall, 
And  Music,  with  her  passion  and  her  wonder, 
Had  passed  beyond  recall. 

Sweet  children  of  the  far,  forgotten  spaces, 
Dear  children  of  the  years  I  thought  so  dead, 
Linger  awhile  with  bright,  immortal  faces, 
Tonight,  about  my  bed. 

GOD'S  LOVE 

I  stood  among  the  hills  before  the  day, 
And   listened   to  the  silence  all  about, 

The  shadows  hovered  on  my  upward  way, 
Within  my  heart  the  shadow  of  a  doubt. 

But  suddenly  a  tender,  azure  light 

Came  moving  like  a  spirit  on  the  hills, 

And  backward  fled  the  phantoms  of  the  night, 
Strange  unrealities  of  human  ills. 

"Dear  God,"  I  whispered,  as  I  felt  the  glow 
Bathe  eyes  and  forehead  in  a  warm  embrace, 

"Thus  in  the  after-life  my  soul  will  know 
The  loving  splendour  of  my  Father's  face. 


And  still,  despite  the  sins  of  other  years, 

Though  yet  in  alien  paths  my  feet  many  roam, 

Clear-shining  through  the  mist  of  human  tears, 
Thy  love's  sweet  radiance  will  guide  me  home." 

SUMMER  DAWN  IN  NEW  YORK 

When  morning  from  the  crimson  eastern  skies 

Spreads  warmly  o'er  the  city's  stony  waste, 
Swifter  than  thought,  in  silent,  burning  haste, 

Above  the  roof  whereon  my  pillow  lies, 
I  start  from  sleep,  and  with  half-dreaming  eyes 

See  the  tall  chimneys  in  the  glow  embraced, 
See  the  red  smoke,  like  sunset  clouds  enlaced 

In  wavering  masses,  ere  their  beauty  dies. 
And  far  above,  the  gulls  in  circling  flight 

Float  in  the  depths  of  the  eternal  blue, 
Their  wings  all  tipt  with  golden  spears  of  light, 

Of  evanescent,  ever-changing  hue. 
It  is  a  prayer  to  gaze  on  such  a  sight, 

A   soul's    thanksgiving,    tender,   deep,   and    true. 

SENEX  MOROSUS 

Now  the  Century  is  old, 

And  bewildered  are  his  looks, 

And  his  shaking  hands  are  cold, 
As  he  fumbles  o'er  his  books. 

Where  they  lie  in  dust  and  mould, 
In   their  half- forgotten  nooks. 

Looking  from  his  window's  height, 
Comes  no  tremor  from  the  east, 

Comes  no  finger-tip  of  light, 

Where  the  foam  is  white  as  yeast, 

Writing  letters  burning  bright, 
Like  the  Writing  at  the  Feast? 


47 


What  renewing  shall  he  find, 
Now  his  flaming  words  are  said  ? 

For  the  fancies  of  his  mind, 

Like  the  autumn  leaves,  are  dead, 

And  they  flutter  in  the  wind, 
'Round  the  old  -forsaken  head. 

1889 

THE  CAT 

My  step  is  swift  and  silent, 

Like  that  of  the  wind-blown  dead, 
I  sit  and  dream  in  the  firelight's  gleam, 

While  the  night-winds  cry  o'er  head ; 
I  have  strange  powers  of  vision, 

My  mystic  eyes  shine  deep, 
And  my  droning  purr  is  like  the  whirr 

Of  wings  that  pass  in  sleep. 

My  master  sits  and  studies, 

Till  his  weary  lamp  burns  dim, 
And   he  starts   in   affright  in   the  weird   half-light 

To  feel  my  eyes  on  him  ; 
He  thrills  to  see  me  creeping 

Across  the  gusty  floor, 
When  I  see  the  ghost  of  the  friend  he  lost 

Peering  behind  the  door. 

The  night  is  growing  older, 

At  last  he  has  gone  to  bed, 
But  the  wind  is  loud,  and  phantoms  crowd 

About  his  wakeful  head ; 
And  wrhen  the  Moon  is  dying, 

He  dimly  sees  me  stand, 
So  gaunt  and  still,  on  the  window-sill, 

And  my  shadow  on  his  hand. 


I  know  the  elves  of  darkness, 

I'm  the  spirit  of  unrest, 
A  secret  I  keep,  so  strange  and  deep, 

Within  my  burning  breast; 
I  tell  my  tale  to  the  grasses 

That  winter  beside  the  stream, 
And  palsied  with  fright  they  hiss  to  the  night, 

Like  a  snake  in  a  troubled  dream. 

And  then  in  my  desolation, 

I  raise  a  mournful  wail, 
The  house  dog  quakes,  my  master  awakes, 

His  cheek  is  cold  and  pale; 
But  none  can  guess  my  story, 

Nor  the  fate  that  follows  me, 
Until  I  atone  for  the  dark  deed  done, 

And  my  soul  at  last  is  free. 

TO  THE  LATE-LINGERING  MOON 

Thou  poor  pale  ghost  of  midnight's  mellow  Moon, 

That  peerest  o'er  the  mountain's  rounded  rim, 
How  comfortless  thy  countenance  and  dim, 

Against  the  chilly  sky  of  winter  noon ! 
Last  night  I  heard  the  heavens  all  atune 

With  music  such  as  Plato  heard  of  old, 
What  time  his  daring  fancy  strove  to  hold 

Its  secret,  while  the  morning  came  too  soon. 
But  now  the  music  and  the  mirth  are  dumb, 

Thy  starry  guests  are  gone  upon  their  way, 
The  board  is  bare,  the  morning  light  has  come, 

And  staring  dreamily  upon  the  day, 
Alone  and   motionless   I   see  thee  stand, 

The  golden  goblet  fallen  from  thy  hand. 


49 


THE  MORNING  WATCH 

Be  resolute,  my  soul, 
And  battle  till  the  day, 
My  strength  is  manifold, 
If  only  thou  be  gay; 
Since  friendship  takes  its  flight, 
Since  love  is  far  outgrown, 
Here,  in  the  silent  night, 
I  watch  alone. 

And  sing  a  song,  my  soul, 
A  bitter  song  and  bright, 
While  fleeting  hours  unroll 
The  enigmatic  night; 
The  pessimist  must  sing — 
Ah,  happy  those  who  weep! 
So  laugh  till  death  shall  bring 
Unending  sleep. 

Tis  good  to  see  the  sun, 
Tis  good  to  feel  the  air 
In  vibrant  billows  run — 

And   beauty  everywhere! 
Tis  good  to  greet  the  storm 
That  beats  upon  my  face, 
And  still  the  dawn  is  warm 
With  tender  grace. 

So  let  me  lie  at  peace 
On  Nature's  kindly  breast, 
Since  human  love  must  cease, 
And  life  is  all  unblest, 
And  watch  the  stars  outspread 
Within  the  brimming  blue — 
But  Abraham  now  is  dead, 
Who  saw  them  too 

50 


And  millions,  ages  hence, 
Shall  watch  the  steady  stars, 
And  question  why  and  whence, 
Behind  their  prison  bars; 
But  if  no  love  shall  give 
A  light  upon  the  way, 
How  can  they  dare  to  live 
Until  the  day? 

Be  still,  my  soul  divine, 
No  heed  the  heart  that  cries! 
I  know  that  love  is  mine, 
The  love  that  never  dies; 
The  bitterness  is  gone, 
Be  happy  now,  and  weep, 
See,  yonder  comes  the  dawn, 
And  I  can  sleep. 

BUBBLES 

As  a  little  child  at  play 
Blows  upon  a  pipe  of  clay 
Bubbles,  evanescent,  bright, 
With  their  iridescent  light, 
So  I  fling  upon  the  wind 
Verses  of  the  bubble  kind. 

And  my  friend  with  eyes  of  blue 
Looks  my  fragile  verses  through, 
Pausing  from  his  books  awhile, 
With   an   intellectual  smile; 
For  my  fancy  seems  as  nought 
To  this  man  of  deeper  thought. 

Still  I  plead  as  my  excuse: 
"Even  bubbles  have  their  use. 
They  are  prefect  while  they  live, 
And    their   short   career   may    give. 

51 


As  they  shimmer  and  are  flown, 
Some  suggestion  for  our  own. 

Let  their  beauty,  pure  and  glad, 
Make  another  soul  less  sad, 
And,  as  upward  they  are  whirl' d, 
Let  them  show  their  little  world 
Floating  clouds  and  perfect  sky, 
Warmly  mirrored,  ere  they  die." 

A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER 

Dear  Love,  the  years  have  come  and  gone, 
The  dreams  of  youth  have  passed  away, 
And  each  tomorrow  finds  undone 
The  task  of  yesterday. 

The  songs  that  I  had  hoped  to  sing 
Have  died  within  my  longing  heart, 
The  honours  I  had  thought  to  win 
All  silently  depart. 

For  each  succeeding  day  has  shown 
The  nearer  duty  to  be  done, 
Has  put  the  greater  deed  aside 
And  left  the  heights  unwon. 

Till  I  have  come  to  see  at  last, 
That  life  itself  might  be  a  song 
And  that  by  little  deeds  is  won 
The  battle  of  the  strong. 

And  thou  hast  given  year  by  year 
Such  gifts  as  only  women  give. 
And  that  unfevered  view  of  life 
That  makes  life  sweet  to  live. 


The  daily  service  meetly  done 
Has  shown  the  wiser  way  to  me, 
And  all  I  am  is  thine  alone 
What  have  I  given  thee? 

But  dear  Love  crept  into  my  arms 
And  put  her  cheek  against  my  cheek 
"And  is  not  love  enough?"  she  said, 
"For  love  is  all  I  seek." 

A  MORNING  THOUGHT 

The  quiet  streets  in  sunlight  blue 
With  early  mists  still  rolling  through, 
Seem,  as  I  watch  them  dreamily, 
A  city  far  below  the  sea, 
And  overheard,  long  fathoms  high, 
The  white  cloud-ships  go  sailing  by. 

The    great    cloud-ships,    they    sail    away 
On  waves  of  ever-lasting  day, 
Often  I  hear  their  happy  crew 
Singing  of  things  that  once  I  knew, 
And  echoes  of  their  song  I  find. 
In  whispers  of  the  morning  wind. 

IN  THE  STARLIGHT 

We  are  but  little  children  in  the  night. 
Beneath  the  great  cathedral-dome  of  heaven, 
And  looking  up  our  solemn  faces  light 
With  silent  awe  by  kindly  angels  given; 
We  are  but  little  children,  standing  where 
We  see  the  mighty  ages  passing  on, 
And  find  a  hope  and  quiet  courage  there 
That  strengthen  us  until  life's  night  is  gone. 


53 


ENIGMATICAL  JENNIE 

Quaint  little  Jennie,   delighting  to   tease, 
Sits  while  I  read  to  her  under  the  trees 
Her  mischievous  eyes  solely  bent  on  the  book 
With  a  prim  and  demure  intellectual  look, 
But  when  I  attempt  to  imprison  her  hand 
Quaint  little  Jennie  does  not  understand! 

When  I  say  she  is  "distant"  she  tries  to  look  grave 
Pray,  how  in  the  world  would  I  have  her  behave? 
Then  I  artfully  seek  to  make  matters  more  clear 
By  showing  that  "distant"  means  "not  very  near" 
My  sage  definition  in  vain  I  extend, 
For  dear  little  Jennie  does  not  comprehend! 

When  she  plays  the  piano  with  exquisite  art 

Revealing  the  wealth  of  her  womanly  heart, 

I  muse  in  my  soul  if  she  ever  can  know 

Why  a  nocturne  of  Chopin  should  sadden  me  so 

'Tis  the  little  musician,  I  long  to  explain 

Who's  the  cause  of  my  vague,  indefinable  pain. 

Then  she  gives  me  a  pansy,  ere  homeward  I  go, 
In  my  buttonhole  daintily  fastened,  just  so ; 
But  what  says  her  heart  when  I  tell  her  the  thought 
Which  the  magical  touch  of  her  fingers  has  wrought? 
Should  I  question  a  sphinx  it  would  answer  as  well, 
For  wise  little  Jennie  refuses  to  tell! 

THE  YEARS  SO  FEW 

The  years  so  few,  so  very  few 
Since  thou  hast  come  to  me, 
And  still  too  few,  though  they  extend 
Through  all  eternity, 


54 


The  days  so  short,  so  very  short, 
That  once  had  been  so  long, 
With  here  and  there  a  sorrow  shared 
And  here  and  there  a  song. 

The  little  things  of  every  day 
So  little  and  so  great, 
With  which,  upon  our  pilgrimage, 
We  weave  the  web  of  fate, 

All  this  I  fain  would  sing:  but  thou 
With  understanding  heart 
Dost  sing  a  far  more  perfect  song 
By  being  what  thou  art. 

THE  BUGLE  CALL 

I,  from  the  bed  where  I  had  slept 

With  vagrant  dreams  the  long  night  through 

Arose,  and  to  the  window  crept, 

What  time  the  bugle  blew. 

There  in  the  hollow  vault  of  dawn, 
Across  the  still  November  frost, 
I  saw  a  phantom  army  drawn, 
And  shadow  banners  tossed. 

The  racking  drum,  the  bugle's  blare, 
Grew  faint  beyond  the  listening  wood, 
A  spirit  climbed  the  narrow  stair 
And  touched  me  where  I  stood. 

"What  dost  thou  here?     Though   drum   nor  fife 
May  lift  thy  soul  to  meet  the  fray, 
Thou  too  go  forth;  the  sword  of  life 
Is  in  thy  hand  to-day!" 


55 


THE  VIRGINIA  REEL 

I  saw  her  standing  in  the  dance, 
Waiting  our  turn  to  start, 

Watching  with  reminiscent  glance 
The  half -forgot  ten  art. 

Fairest  of  all  she  seemed  to  me, 

Sweet  as  a  yellow  rose, 
Deep  in  whose  heart  the  culprit  bee 

Seeketh  a  night's  repose. 

And  scarcely  could  I  dare  to  say 
This  maiden  was  my  wife: 

So  love  reneweth  day  by  day 
The  rich  romance  of  life. 

THE  RAIN 

In  the  night  so  dark  and  dreamless 
Dreamless  and  dark  and  still, 

There  comes  a  gracious  presence, 
Stepping  across  the  hill, 

Stepping  across  the  city, 

Over  the  waiting  lawn, 
Journeying  on  and  onward 

From  darkness  into  dawn 

Lo,  in  the  April  morning 

I  look  from  my  window's  height, 
And  I  see  her  fast  retreating, 

Lost  in  the  halls  of  light  ; 

Just  a  ghost  on  the  hillside, 
The  smoke  of  her  dusky  hair, 

The  wealth  of  a  million  jewels 
Shimmering  through  the  air. 

56 


Hail  to  our  gracious  Lady! 

Her  kindly  work  is  done 
And  the  whole  round  world  is  laughing 

Under  the  rising  sun! 

A  SONG  TO  MY  BELOVED 

Sing  me  a  song  of  my  Love  today, 

Heart  of  my  heart,  singing  alone, 

Here  in  the  liquid  light  of  May, 

Where  the  roses'  odours  are  softly  blown : 

The  shadows  ripple  along  the  grass 

And  out  from  the  mumurous,  moving  leaves 

I  watch  the  flashing  sparrows  pass 

To  their  noisy  haunts  in  the  ivied  eaves. 

Sing  of  her  eyes  that  are  velvet  brown, 
And  the  hand  that  nestles  within  my  own, 
Sing  of  her  dark  hair  straying  down, 
And  her  gentle  arms  about  me  thrown; 
Sing  of  the  tears  of  a  deep  surprise 
And  thoughts  too  sweet  for  the  minds  of  men, 
For  the  new  life  lives  and  the  old  life  dies, 
And  Love  comes  into  his  own  again. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  perfect  rest, 
After  the  weary,  waiting  days 
When  her  dear  head  slumbers  upon  my  breast, 
(Oh,  the  ways  of  a  woman  are  wondrous  ways!) 
At  her  sweet  lips'  pressure  upon  my  own 
My  pulses  pause  and  my  senses  swim 
As  when,  in  the  twilight  church  alone, 
My  heart  is  hushed  by  the  vesper  hymn. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  my  Love  today, 
Heart  of  my  heart,  singing  alone, 
While  morning  brightens  upon  the  Bay, 
And  the  roses*  odours  are  softly  blown; 

57 


Sing  of  the  light  of  love's  surprise, 
That  shines  but  once  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
When  the  new  life  lives  and  the  old  life  dies, 
And  Love  comes  into  his  own  again. 

TO  THE  RAILROAD  TRAIN 

I  saw  thee  first,  I  do  not  know 
How  many,  many  years  ago, 
But  in  a  dream  I  seem  to  stand, 
Holding  my  father's  steady  hand, 
And  watch  the  mighty  railroad  train, 
With  swinging  bell  and  clank  of  chain, 
Speed  onward  where  I  long  to  go, 
To  see  the  world  that  glimmers  grand, 
Beyond  the  gates  of  Wonderland. 

And  through  the  thieving  years  have  come, 
And  stolen  from  my  store  of  dreams, 
The  wonder  is  not  wholly  gone, 
Whene'er  thy  ruddy  headlight  gleams, 
Or,  when  adown  the  narrowing  track, 
I  hear  thy  voice,  and  looking  back, 
I  see  a  speck  that  grows  and  grows, 
Until  the  lessening  distance  shows 
The  throbbing  wheels,  the  hurrying  train, 
Like  some  mad  demon  of  the  brain. 

And  when,  before  the  dawn  of  day, 
I  pause  upon  my  homeward  way, 
And  hear  the  breezes  sigh  and  pass, 
The  crickets  pulsing  in  the  grass — 
The  long  night's  murm'rous  quietness — 
There  comes,  afar,  a  droning  sound, 
A  tremor  springs  along  the  ground, 
The  droning  wakens  to  a  roar, 

Till  round  the  curve, 

With  sway  and  swerve, 

58 


With  headlight  blazing  on  before, 
Sweeps  grandly  down  the  night  express! 
The  solid  pavement  quakes  and  reels, 
Beneath  the  great  convulsive  wheels, 
A  whirlwind  follows  down  the  track 
With  showers  of  stone — then  all  is  black. 
Afar,  across  the  pasture  bars, 
I  hear  the  watchdog's  mellowed  bay, 
I  note  the  paling  eastern  stars, 
Just  a  faint  hint  of  coming  day, 
I  hear  the  breezes  sigh  and  pass, 
And  crickets  pulsing  in  the  grass. 

Now,  in  the  wintry  afternoon, 

Enveloped  in  the  whirling  drifts, 

With    trailing   smoke   that   spreads   and    lifts, 

To  vanish  from  my  sight  too  soon, 

Bearing  thy  wealth  of  joy  and  woe, 

How  splendidly  I  see  thee  go! 

And  often  in  the  summer  night, 

While  half  awake  I  lie  and  dream, 

Watching  the  ghostly  bars  of  light 

Along  the  swaying  curtains  gleam. 

I  hear  the  rumble  of  the  train 

Crossing  the  bridge  beyond  the  town, 

A  sudden  wail  of  fear  or  pain, 

And  then  the  silence  settles  down. 

But,  best  of  all, 
To  watch  the  world, 
Glide    backward    past 
The  window-panes 
While  nearer,  nearer, 
Nearer  whirl Jd, 
The  fever  burning 
In  my  veins. 
I  homeward  fly 
Across  the  plains! 

59 


Then  swing,  ye  lamps,  and  ring,  ye  bells, 
And  speed,  O,  train,  along  the  rail! 
Through  burst  of  sun  or  rain  or  hail, 
Sweep  on  with  great  clean  giant  stride. 
Across  the  prairies,  dim  and  wide! 
(No  knight  that  sought  the  Holy  Grail 
E'er  harboured  such  an  eager  quest 
As  that  which  burns  within  my  breast) 
The  rocks  that  wrap  the  mountain-side 
Shall  waken  from  their  age-long  dreams, 
What  time  thy  head-light  redly  gleams, 
And  thunder  down  the  darkened  world. 
The  sleeper,  turning  in  his  sleep, 
Shall  hear  the  echo  down  the  vale, 
And  still  the  lamps  their  watches  keep 
While  thou  in  triumph  onward  sweep, 
Their  faithful  watch  that  shall  not  fail 
Until  beneath  the  echoing  dome, 
At  dawn  of  day  thou  bring  me  home. 

THE  CRY  OF  THE  WORKERS 

The  babblers  in  the  temple  made  with  hands 

Sat  talking,  talking,  talking,  all  the  day, 

Of  rectitude  and  justice,  and  the  way, 

The  world  should  walk,   obeying  their  commands 

And  while  the  glass  recorded  golden  sands, 

And  shadows  lengthened  in  the  busy  street, 

There  came  a  sound  of  swift  determined  feet, 

And  blows  upon  the  portal's  brazen  bands, 

And  then  a  voice,  relentless  and  elate: 

"We  care  not  for  your  arguments  and  creeds, 

We  care  not  for  your  pity  or  your  hate, 

We  clamour  not  for  theories,  but  deeds, 

Then  give  us  of  the  heart,  and  not  the  head 

Then  give  us  for  our  toil,  not  stones,  but  bread !" 


60 


COMING  HOME 

Oh,  the  road  is  dark, 
And  the  stars  are  stark 
In  the  heaven  wide  and  still, 

But  youth  is  strong, 

Though  the  way  be  long, 
For  Love  lies  over  the  hill. 

Soft  in  her  dewy  sleep  she  lies, 

Wrapt  in  a  web  of  dreams, 
Hiding  the  light  of  her  liquid  eyes, 

Till  the  flame  of  my  candle  gleams. 

Here  in  the  awe  of  the  autumn  night. 

Strangely  my  fancies  stir, 
Swift  as  the  course  of  the  wild  duck's  flight 

Winging  their  way  to  her. 

Ah,  slow,  too  slow,  are  my  eager  feet. 

Nearer  and  yet  more  near, 
Still  does  my  heart  to  my  heart  repeat, 

The  woes  of  a  witless  fear. 

Long  is  the  day 

I  have  been  away 

But  heart  of  my  heart,  be  still, 

For  fear  is  past, 

And  I  see  at  last 
Where  my  Love  lies,  over  the  hill. 

THE  SONG  OF  DEAD  CITIES 

I  played  a  gay  Italian  air, 
And  Venice  swam  into  my  soul 
With  laughter  of  the  young  and  fair, 
And  swinging  barcarolle. 

61 


But  presently  my  song  grew  mute, 
For  beat  on  beat  I  heard  arise, 
The  silvery  note  of  harp  and  flute 
Beneath  Italian  skies, 

But    all    the    streets    that    round    me    spread, 
With  cosmic  voices  like  the  sea, 
Gave  back  the  dirges  of  the  dead 
That  are  and  are  to  be! 

AMBITION 

She  dwelt  with  me  in  days  when  life  was  young 
Beneath  the  tiles,  and  shared  my  meagre  lot, 
And  when  my  heart  with  bitter  pain  was  wrung 
She  sat  beside  my  cot. 

Then  came  another  who  was  called  Success 
Deckt  like  an  harlot,  and  did  drive  her  thence. 
The  dear  companion  of  my  toil  and  stress, 
And  my  sweet  recompense. 

So  day  and  night  I  lived  like  other  men 
With  song  and  wassail  and  with   friends  a  score, 
And  ever  dreamed  that  she  would  come  again 
And  enter  at  my  door. 

But  still  she  came  not,  while  Success  grew  cold, 
And  ceased  to  smile  as  in  her  early  days; 
My  hand  grew  feeble,  and  my  heart  was  old 
And  clouded  were  my  ways. 

But  one  fair  morn  when  all  my  store  was  spent 
And  all  my  hopes  were  crumbling  into  dust, 
Success  took  back  the  gifts  that  she  had  lent, 
And  left  me  with  my  crust. 


Yet  not  alone,  for  through  unusual  tears, 
I  saw  her  enter  whom  I  thought  so  dead. 
Star-eyed  Ambition  of  my  happier  years, 
With  promise  garlanded! 

MY  DARLING  SLEPT  AN  ENDLESS- 
SEEMING  SLEEP 

My  darling  slept  an  endless-seeming  sleep, 

Her  hands  so  meekly  folded  on  her  breast, 

Till   through  the  blinds  I   saw   the  daylight  peep 

Upon  her  silent  rest. 

It  touched  her  lips,  half-sighing  and  apart, 

And  wrought  a  golden  mist  upon  her  hair, 

And  suddenly  a  woe  assailed  my  heart, 

To  see  her  lying  there. 

"Awake,  my  Love,  the  sun  is  in  the  sky, 
And  drives  the  phantoms  of  the  night  away! 
I  fear  your  sleep,  nor  know  the  reason  why; 
Awake,  and  see  the  day!" 

TO  AN  OBSTRUCTIONIST 

This  would  I  say  to  you,  dull  brow  of  woe, 

Mourning  our  county's  loss  of  noble  aim, 

Framing  a  lengthy  bill  of  surly  blame 

Against  the  stouter  men  who  face  the  foe; 

Not  such  as  you,  in  that  loved  long  ago, 

Rose  in  the  might  of  their  majestic  scorn, 

And  full  of  faith  in  us,  as  yet  unborn, 

Won  us  the  country  that  you  cherish  so; 

But  such  as  you  sat  at  the  chimney-side, 

Cursing  the  folly  of  their  fellow-men, 

Praising  the  "good  old  times"  while  others  died 

That  Liberty  entombed  might  rise  again. 

And  now  their  sons,  with  that  same  flag  unfurled, 

March  down  the  widening  highways  of  the  world. 

63 


THE  THIRTY-FIRST  OF  MAY 

Marred  as  the  tattered  flags  they  bear, 
Here  in  the  joyous  morn, 
Behind  the  bugle's  cheering  blare, 
I  catch  a  note  forlorn. 

For  fewer  now  than  yester  year, 
With  halting  step  and  slow, 
Nursing  a  memory  grim  and  dear, 
The  waving  columns  go. 

These,  in  their  splendid  boyhood  days, 
Seared  by  the  battle's  breath, 
Winning  imperishable  praise, 
Walked  arm  in  arm  with  death. 

And,    oh,    the    day   when    they    returned 
To  meet  their  great  reward, 
And  through  a  thousand  cities  burned 
The  bayonet  and  the  sword ! 

Now,  yearly,  in  some  grizzled  face, 
We  read  the  tale  sublime, 
And  wistful  fancy  still  may  trace, 
The  record  of  that  time, 

The  faith  that  in  those  epic  years 
Left  no  great  deed  undone, 
Until  this  land,  through  blood  and  tears, 
They  welded  into  one. 


THE  HEARTS  DESIRE 

At  dawn  and  noon  and  set  of  sun, 

Seeking  my  heart's  desire, 

I  count  the  minutes  one  by  one, 

Till  I  see  the  west,  when  the  day  is  done, 

Flame  like  a  forest  fire. 

What  is  the  burden  of  my  request? 
What  are  the  wild  wind's  ways? 
Where  is  the  goal  of  the  heart's  unrest. 
Seeking  the  thing  that  it  loves  the  best, 
Its  uneventful  days? 

Much  have  I  loved  in  the  hours  of  dawn, 

Much  in  the  hours  of  noon. 

What,  when  the  shadows  are  longer  drawn, 

And  the  last  red  banner  of  day  is  gone 

And  night  is  coming  soon? 

Only  the  chance  of  a  fight  to  win, 
The  deed  that  my  soul  loves  best, 
Only  the  call  of  the  battle's  din, 
And  then  the  peace  of  the  heart  within 
The  bourn  of  the  soldier's  rest. 

ON  ENTERING  A  NEW  HOUSE 

Peace  to  this  house  where  we  shall  enter  in, 

Here  let  the  world's  hoarse  din 

Against  the  panels  dash  itself  in  vain, 

Like  gusts  of  autumn  rain; 

Here,  knowing  no  man's  sway, 

In  the  brief  pauses  of  the  fight, 

Let  music  sound,  and  love  and  laughter  light 

Refresh  us  for  the  day. 


The  window  waits  where  I  shall  sit  me  down 
And  sing  a  quiet  song, 

When  sleep  descends  upon  the  darkening  town, 
And  winter  nights  are  long. 

Then  with  the  dawn  I'll  fling  the  casement  wide 
And  o'er  the  brimming  tide 
I'll  send  it  forth  as  Noah  sent  his  dove 
Across  the  world  of  waves  on  wandering  wings  of 
love 

TEUCER 

When  Teucer  fled  his  native  land, 
Dear  Salamis,  his  ancient  home, 

He  thus  addressed  his  mournful  band, 
Long  wont  with  him  to  roam : 

"To-morrow  we  shall  spread  our  sails, 

And  try  again  the  rolling  deep, 
To-night  we  will  not  fear  the  gales 

That  through  the  darkness  sweep. 

Then  pass  the  cup  from  each  to  each, 

Let  faces  in  the  firelight  glow, 
Though  in  the  intervals  of  speech 

We  hear  the  tempest  blow, 

And   raise   the  song  to   Fortune's  praise, 
Far  kinder  than  my  sire  is  she, 

And  she  will  guide  our  lonely  ways, 
Upon  the  trackless  sea!" 

So  Teucer  spoke,  and  with  the  morn 
He  shook  the  flapping  canvas  free, 

What  time  the  new  moon's  fading  horn 
Dipt  down  into  the  sea. 


66 


Full  many  days  and  nights  he  sped, 
Across  the  heaving  midland   tide, 

The  stars  that  whirled  above  his  head 
Reflected  at  his  side. 

And  some  companions,  fearing  sore, 
Turned  back  from  that  heroic  quest, 

Grounding  their  galleys  on  the  shore, 
In  an  inglorious  rest. 

But  he  pressed  on  with  comrades  ten, 
Who  oft  had  suffered  graver  ills, 

A  band  of  tried  and  trusty  men, 
Upon  the  Trojan  hills. 

And  still  his  prow  was  pointed  west, 
And  still  the  rolling  of  the  surge 

Rained  the  salt  spray  upon  his  breast, 
And  beckoned  toward  the  verge, 

Until  he  reached  a  desert  land, 
Embosomed  in  the  boundless  blue, 

And  on  the  foaming  length  of  strand 
Began  his  life  anew. 

A  ROMAN  REVEL 

We  started  in  the  evening  with  our  torches  burning 

bright, 
With  a  recklessness  of  purpose,  in  a  whirlwind  of 

delight, 
And  our  grappling-hooks  were  ready  for  the  feats 

of  mimic  war: 

"Galatea,    Galatea,   we   will   batter   down   your 
door!" 


There  was  Remmius  Palaemon,  ablest  master  of  the 

schools, 
He  could  teach  the  Roman  epic,  for  he  knew  the 

epic  rules, 
And  the  lyric  poet  Bassus,  second  Flaccus  of  our 

days, 

And   my   own    dear   friend    Lucanus,    singer   of 
heroic  lays. 

Now  we  jeered  a  rustic  aedile  as  we  passed  him  in 

the  street, 
Then  we  seized  a  one-eyed  beggar  and  we  tript 

him  off  his  feet, 
But  he  called  the  city  watchman  and  we  heard  them 

come  apace, 

And   I  lost  my  crown  of  roses  as  we  scattered 
from  the  place. 

I  lost  my  crown  of  roses,  and  we  lost  Palaemon  too, 
When  we  reached  the  vile  Subura  he  had  van- 
ished from  our  view, 
Then  Lucanus  met  a  damsel  he  had  worshipped  long 

before, 

Neither  prayers  nor  threats  could  move  him,  so 
we  left  him  at  her  door. 

In  the  vinous  cloud  enveloped  still  we  wandered  on 

our  way, 
And  I  heard  the  voice  of  Bassus  as  he  sang  a  lyric 

lay, 
Sang  of  brave  old  King  Aeneas  in  a  mystic  misty 

glow, 

When  he  went  to  see  Queen  Dido  in  the  days  of 
long  ago. 

But  his  voice  grew  faint  and  fainter,  and  the  torches' 

fitful  fire 

Showed  a  face  all  worn  and  weary  with  the  rav- 
age of  desire, 

68 


Till  he  fell  upon  the  pavement  with  a  deep,  de- 
sponding groan, 

And  the  servants  bore  him  homeward  while  I 
held  my  way  alone. 

Night  was  verging  toward   the  morning  when   I 

past  the  city  gate, 

Half  a  thousand  paces  farther,  and  I  paused  dis- 
consolate, 
For  the  silence  of  the  country  fell  upon  me  with  a 

chill, 

And  the  tombstones  straggled  upward  by  the  road 
across  the  hill. 

But  I  wrestled  with  my  terror,  and  when  day  began 

to  break 
I  could  see  the  little  villa  in  the  woods  beside  the 

lake, 
And  I  thought  with  sudden  sorrow,  as  I  neared  the 

wished-for  goal, 

How  the  beauty  of  the  springtime  mocked  the 
winter  of  my  soul. 

Then  I  pictured  to  my  fancy  how  I  sat  in  robes  of 

white, 
With  a  ring  of  rare  sardonyx,  as  befits  a  Roman 

knight, 
How  I  read  my  bitter  satires,  and  above  the  cries  of 

all 

Heard  the  "Euge!"  of  Lucanus  thunder  through 
the  crowded  hall. 

What  to  me  were  all  the  honours  that  had  crowned 

my  fevered  youth? 

What  the  rules  of  wise  Cornutus,  in  the  face  of 
simple  truth? 


Just  the  shadow  of  phantom  that  would  lure  my 

footsteps  on, 

Leave  me  weary  by  the  wayside  when  the  morn 
of  life  was  gone. 

Thus  I  pondered,  walking  slowly,  then  I  raised  my 

heavy  eyes, 
Saw  my  darling  running  toward  me  with  a  cry 

of  glad  surprise, 
Bare  of  foot,  with  hair  unloosened,  in  her  simple 

girlish  grace, 

And  the  shadows  fled  my  spirit  in  the  sunlight  of 
her  face. 

HYMN  TO  MINERVA 

Standing  in  thy  simple  splendour, 

Mother  of  a  matchless  world, 
We  have  come  in  sweet  surrender, 

Long  by  bitter  tempests  whirl'd, 
'Mid    the    thoughts   that   swarmed    and    darkened, 

And  the  doubts  that  drove  us  dumb, 
We  have  heard  thy  voice  and  harkened, 

See  thy  tired  children  come. 

Though  we  heard  thee  in  the  morning, 

Yet  we  feared  thy  perfect  grace, 
Till  the  season's  somber  warning 

Threw  a  shadow  on  our  face; 
Sick  at  last  of  modern  longing, 

Wearied  of  the  trump  and  drum, 
Up  thy  gleaming  stairway  thronging, 

See  thy  tired  children  come. 

Through  the  Parian  portals  streaming, 

Sleeps  the  sunlight  on  the  floor, 
In  the  twilight,  grandly  dreaming, 

Stand  the  gods  forevermore; 
70 


Like  a  vision  climbs  the  city, 

Through  the  azure  Attic  air, 
While  we  pause  and  crave  thy  pity, 

Thronging  up  they  gleaming  stair. 

Pride  triumphant  over  passion, 

Mind  triumphant  over  man, 
Faith  transcending  flitting  fashion, 

Let  him  love  the  gods  who  can ! 
Let  him  leave  the  valleys  lying 

In  the  drifting  shroud  of  night, 
Greet  the  goddess,  the  undying, 

Armed  and  helmeted  with  light! 

Standing  in  thy  simple  splendour, 

Mother  of  a  matchless  world, 
We  have  come  in  sweet  surrender, 

Long  by  bitter  tempests  whirl'd  ; 
We  are  sick  of  modern  longing, 

Wearied  of  the  trump  and  drum, 
Up  thy  gleaming  stairway  thronging, 

See  thy  tired  children  come. 

THE  MESSAGE 

Dear  sister,  I  am  fain  to  rest  awhile 
Upon  this  little  temple's  marble  stair, 

And  watch  the  moon  beyond  Aegina's  Isle, 
And  feel  the  breezes  blowing  back  my  hair. 

So  fair  the  night!     Here  let  us  sit  in  peace, 
And  count  these  apples  mellowed  by  the  sun, 

A  gift  for  Nisus,  that  he  may  not  cease 

To  prize  the  love  his  own  sweet  words  have  won. 

I  cannot  tell  what  thoughts  are  his  to-night, 
Or  whether  any  thought  of  love  there  be, 


I  only  see  the  morning  shining  bright 
Upon  the  eyes  that  looked  so  kind  on  me. 

You  saw  him,  sister,  in  the  rapid  race, 
Fly  far  afront,  like  Eurus  in  his  might, 

You  saw  the  eager  beauty  of  his  face, 
The  flashing  of  a  free  and  fierce  delight. 

Ah,  how  I  love  the  pride  that  scorned  defeat! 

Yet,  when  my  tongue  would  praise  him  with  the 

rest, 
My  spirit  failed,  and  in  confusion  sweet, 

I  hid  my  burning  face  upon  your  breast. 

So,  when  the  songs  of  triumph  all  are  sung, 
Go,  lay  these  apples  at  his  open  door, 

And  say  Aglaia  chides  her  silent  tongue, 

Nor  loves  him  less  than  those  who  praised  him 
more. 

TO  LESBIA'S  SPARROW 
From  Catullus 

Little  sparrow,  her  delight, 
With  your  eyes  of  amber  bright, 

At  a  word 

You  will  fly  your  golden  cage, 
When  her  grief  she  would  assuage 

With  her  bird. 

When  I  see  my  darling  smile, 
Holding  up  her  hand  the  while 

To  your  bite, 

Can  her  gentle  heart  divine, 
Can  she  know  what  woe  is  mine, 

At  the  sight? 


72 


Could  she  know  the  love  that  stings, 
When  she  folds  your  little  wings 

In  her  breast, 

Surely  she  would  grant  to  me 
One  sweet  moment's  ecstasy, 

There  to  rest! 

PARIS   REDIVIVUS 

Two  thousand  years  ago,  at  Sulla's  word, 
A  cargo  of  Greek  deities 
Swam  on  the  wide  blue  spaces  of  the  seas. 
Blithe  as  a  bird 

The  good  ship  dashed  the  spray, 
Winging  her  azure  way, 
And  unafraid  the  sailors'  song 
Rang  on  the  waters  as  she  sped  along. 
But  near  Cythera's  Isle 
The  blue  sky  ceased  to  smile, 
And  night  came  down  too  soon, 
Veiling  the  splendor  of  the  autumn  moon. 
Then  in  the  dark  a  sudden  wail  of  fear, 
And  frenzied  prayers  to  ears  that  could  not  hear; 
Till,  just  as 'morning  broke  upon  the  sea, 
Sailor  and  carven  deity 

Plunged  the  last  time  beneath  the  climbing  foam, 
And  left    still    unadorned    great    Sulla's    splendid 
home. 

Sulla  was  gone,  and  these  were  soon  forgot. 

Wrapt  in  their  sad  sea  dreams  they  heeded  not 

The  great  world's  little  great. 

They  knew  not  of  that  gentle  light  which  brake 

Upon   the  world   in   Bethlehem's  lowly  shed, 

Nor  heard  the  words  they  spake, 

Those  angels  bright  above  that  sacred  bed, 

Whose  song  the  gods'  sure  conqueror  heralded. 

73 


The  sands  crept  on  apace 
Above  each  classic  face, 
And  seaweeds'  slimy  strands 
Wrapt  the  white  fingers  of  those  marble  hands. 
Instead  of  suppliant's  tread 
That  once  had  echoed  in  their  pillar'd  hall, 
They  heard  the  seamew's  call 
By  their  unhonored  bed; 

They  saw  the  strange,  dim  monsters  sailing  by 
Between    their     deepening    grave     and    that     far, 
changeless  sky. 

Great  Rome  became  a  legend  to  men's  ears. 
Another  race,  with  other  hopes  and  fears, 
Watered  the  fertile  earth  with  their  dear  blood  and 

tears. 

One  morning,  on  the  Aegean's  heaving  floor, 
There  broke  a  sudden  roar; 
Turk  and  Venetian  in  a  grim  embrace 
Drove  by  in  battle  din  above  that  place. 
Surely,  Zeus  thundered  on  his  ancient  throne, 
Surely,  he  spake  again 
Among  the  race  of  men, 
And  by  his  angry  bolt  the  shattered  wrecks  were 

strown ! 

These  too  were  gone  their  unreturning  way, 

Kings  of  an  hour  and  kingdoms  of  a  day. 

The  world   grew  round;   above  man's  wondering 

head 

Star-dust  and  comet  whirl'd,  and  suns  unnumbered. 
Homeric  dreams  came  true  and  man  once  more, 
Scorning  the  labor  of  the  sail  and  oar, 
Sped  in  Phaeacian  ships,  nor  feared  the  unfriendly 

shore. 


74 


At  last  a  diver,  seeking  scanty  gain 

Along  the  marge  of  that  unfruitful  main, 

Searching  the  rocks  where  swaying  sponges  clung, 

Bent  lower  down, 

And  found  the  gods  that  Sophocles  had  sung: 

Grey-eyed  Athene  of  the  violet  crown, 

Hermes  and  Hera  in  confusion  thrown, 

With  matted  weeds  o'ergrown, 

And  marred  by  centuries  of  sands  above  them  blown. 

Strange  was  his  tale,  the  resurrection  strange ! 

Again  from  out  the  caverns  of  the  deep, 

Battered  and  wasted  in  their  age-long  sleep, 

Monstrous  they  rise  to  view  a  world  of  change. 

Themselves  how  changed!  Upon  the  dripping 
shore 

Shapeless  they  lie  whose  once  surpassing  line 

Had  breathed  a  soul  divine, 

Before  whose  sacred  door, 

In  darkened  days  of  old, 

Men  brought  their  prayers  and  gold, 

Nor  dared  the  murmurous  gloom  of  that  seques- 
tered shrine. 

And  these  were  dead  indeed;  but  one  remained, 
Shattered  and  marred  and  stained, 
Though  lovely  still. 
And  when,  with  subtle  skill 
And  patient  art, 

The  workman's  hand  restored  each  broken  part, 
.Forming  the  bronze  anew, 
Splendid  he  stood  in  all  his  youthful  prime, 
As  when  Lysippus  stayed  his  master  hand, 
And  on  his  raptured  view 
Paris  arose,  a  mortal  youth  triumphant  over  time. 


75 


Eager  his  poise,  and  in  his  outstretched  hand 

The  golden  apple  for  his  goddess  fair; 

No  hint  as  yet  is  there 

In  that  bright  face 

Of  treason's  searing  brand, 

Of  Ilion  in  the  whirlwind  flame's  embrace; 

Nor  of  that  day,  of  evil  days  the  best, 

When  he  shall  stem  the  crested  waves  of  woe, 

And  in  the  ranks  hard  pressed 

Shall  lay  Achilles  low, 

Speeding  the  winged  shaft  from  his  unerring  bow. 

But  these  are  figments  of  the  poet's  art. 

He,  in  a  strange  and  unimagined  wise 

Restored  to  human  eyes, 

Stands  ever  thus  apart, 

Viewed  by  the  restless,  transitory  throng 

That  pass  the  echoing  corridor  along. 

There,  in  a  mood  divine, 

He  lifts  his  radiant  head, 

Joyous  as  at  the  first, 

Though  centuries  have  fled, 

A  mortal  youth  for  maiden's  love  athirst, 

Mortal,  yet  deathless  when  the  gods  are  dead. 

CATULLUS  TO  LESBIA 

As  many  as  the  stars  of  night, 

That  from  their  deep,  impassioned  height 

View  stolen  loves  of  men, 
Or  as  the  sands  beside  the  sea, 
So  many  kisses  kiss  thou  me, 

Again  and  yet  again! 


SONG 

(Suggested  by  Ovid) 

It  was  the  glorious  Junetime, 

And  all  the  world  was  still, 
The  slumber  of  the  noontime 

Lay  over  vale  and  hill. 

The  languid  sheep  were  on  the  shore, 

The  lizard  sought  the  stone, 
And   I,  within  my  darkened   door, 

Lay  weary  and  alone. 

And  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, 
The  door  was  opened  wide, 

I  saw  the  sunlight  streaming 
Across  the  countryside. 

But  brighter  than  the  sun  of  noon, 

And  fresher  than  the  sea, 
And  sweeter  than  the  rose  of  June, 

Corinna  came  to  me. 

Go,  laurel  wreath,  about  my  brow, 

And  sing,  triumphant  lay, 
Within  my  heart  she's  captive  now, 

Forever  and  a  day! 

LAMENT  OF  THE  THEBAN  VIRGINS  FOR 
ETEOCLES  AND  POLYNICES 

Chorus 

Omnipotent  Zeus,  and  gods  of  our  land, 
Who  have  saved  our  towers  with  outstretched  hand, 
Mighty  preservers! 


77 


Shall  I  sing  as  they  bring  glad  news  from  afar, 
How  our  soldiers  stood  'mid  the  waves  of  war, 

Dauntless  defenders? 

Or  shall  dirges  arise,  as  with  streaming  eyes 
I  mourn  for  the  light  of  Thebes  that  dies? 
For  the  heroes  twain  in  the  fierce  fight  slain 
Let  the  salt  tears  flow,  as  sad  and  slow 
We  wail  for  the  dead  who  have  gone  below, 

Equal  offenders! 

Strophe 

0  sad  the  fate  that  comes,  though  late, 
To  the  sons  of  Oedipus,  sons  of  hate! 
And  to  my  heart  what  terrors  dart, 
As  Thyad-wise  with  phrensied  eyes, 

1  raise  my  unavailing  cries! 

I  raise  a  dirge  for  the  fallen  head, 

The  twain  who  fought,  the  twain  who  bled, 

Alas!  now  numbered  with  the  dead! 

The  fateful  song  of  luckless  spears 

Is  ringing,  ringing  in  my  ears, 

I  mourn  with  unavailing  tears! 

Antistrophe 

Accursed  sire!  thy  fell  desire 

Brought  woes  incredible,  sword  and  fire! 

Alas,  the  horror  passing  faith! 

Alas,  the  brothers'  double  death! 

And  slowly  through  the  city  street 

I  hear  the  muffled  marching  feet. 

Strophe 

Ah,   true   alas!   the  message,    for  a   double-dealing 

doom 
Has  fallen  on  our  heroes,  and  I  see  them  born  along 

78 


The  unreturning  journey,  while  the  sorrow  of  the 

tomb 
Now  comes  to  dwell  beside  the  hearths  that  once 

were  glad  with  song. 

Antistrophc 

But,  O  my  dearest  friends,  before  a  storm  of  sighs, 
Ply  about  the  head  an  urging  stroke  of  hands, 
And  send  the  black-sailed  ship  on  which  the  hero 

lies 
Adown  the  stream  of  Acheron  to  unseen,  sunless 

lands! 

THE  SMOKER'S  REVERIE 

Had  Horace  known  tobacco's  pleasure 
He  never  would  have  wasted  measure, 
And  wealth  of  epithet  divine, 
On  Lydian  maid  and  Massic  wine, 
For  smoking  brings  us  twice  the  gladness, 
Without  the  headache  or  the  madness. 

When  Thaliarchus  brought  the  cup, 
And  Horace  heaped  the  driftwood  up, 
When  all  without  was  night  and  snow, 
And  all  within  was  cheerful  glow, 
Their  happiness,  though  great  indeed, 
Still  lacked  the  comfort  of  the  weed. 

The  poets  often  spend  their  hours 
In  writing  verses  about  flowers, 
They  sing  of  lotos,  eglantine, 
Geranium  and  jessamine; 
To  me  the  weed  is  fairer  still 
That  nods  upon  the  sunny  hill. 


79 


Deep-rooted  in  the  fruitful  earth, 
It  slowly  grows  in  size  and  worth, 
And  one  by  one  come  heavenly  dreams 
To  hide  within  its  leafy  seams, 
And  what  is  best  in  earth  and  air 
Combines  to  make  the  gift  more  rare. 

At  last  it  hangs  upon  the  wall, 
Where  dews  at  evening  gently  fall, 
The  western  breezes  softly  blow, 
And  sing  sweet  songs  of  long  ago, 
The  noonday  sun  comes  blazing  down, 
And  turns  it  beautifully  brown. 

And  now  I  fill  my  meerschaum  pipe 
With  nature's  gift,  serene  and  ripe, 
And  though  the  ashes,  cold  and  dead, 
May  symbolize  the  hopes  now  fled, 
Yet  once  again  the  smoke  shall  rise, 
Like  aspirations,  to  the  skies. 

PERVIGILIUM  VENERIS 

"Cras  amet  qui   nunquam  amavit,   quique   amavit 
eras  amet." 

Let   him    love  a   maid   to-morrow   who   has   never 

known  love's  ways, 
Let  him  love  again   to-morrow  who   has  loved  in 

other  days. 
Spring  has  come,  the  sunny  Springtime:     Jupiter 

was  born  in  Spring: 
Now  the  cupids  come  a-courting,  now  the  birds  their 

nuptials  sing; 
Now  the  grove  her  hair  unloosens  for  her  fruitful 

lord,  the  rain, 
And  to-morrow  through  the  shadows  Venus  comes 

to  earth  again. 

80 


She  will  build  a  woodland  bower  from  the  myrtle  all 

her  own, 
While  Dione  rules  her  subjects,  seated  on  a  lofty 

throne. 
Let   him    love  a   maid   to-morrow   who   has   never 

known  love's  ways, 
Let  him   love  again   to-morrow  who   has  loved  in 

other  days. 

Pleasure  makes  the  country  fruitful,  Venus  there 

her  sceptre  wields, 
Love  himself,   Dione's  darling,  Love  was  born  in 

sunny  fields, 
And  Dione  took  her  darling  to  the  shade  of  scented 

bowers, 
In  her  bosom  gently  bore  him,  showered  him  with 

purple  flowers. 
Let   him    love  a   maid   to-morrow   who   has   never 

known  love's  ways, 
Let  him  love  again   to-morrow  who   has  loved  in 

other  days. 

She  herself  upon  the  hamlets  that  regard  her  kindly 

power 
Scatters  rosebuds,  zephyr-nurtured,  in  a  bright  and 

fragrant  shower, 
And  the  dews  which  night  departing  leaves  a-glim- 

mer  on  the  ground 
Are  the  gems  Dione  flings  us  as  she  wings  the  world 

around. 
Let   him    love  a   maid   to-morrow   who   has   never 

known  love's  ways. 
Let  him  love  again   to-morrow  who   has  loved  in 

other  days. 

See  the  tears  that  start  and  tremble,  shimmer  there 

though  yet  unshed ; 
See  the  flush  a  rose  resemble,  as  the  maiden  hangs 

her  head ! 

81 


Dews  upon  her  lashes  linger  like  the  dews  of  quiet 

night, 
Till  at  length  her  heart  unprisons  all  her  bosom's 

fair  delight. 
Let   him    love  a   maid   to-morrow   who   has   never 

known  love's  ways, 
Let  him   love  again   to-morrow  who   has  loved  in 

other  days. 

And  the  goddess  has  commanded  that  the  nymphs 
together  go 

To  the  grove  of  sacred  myrtle  where  the  breezes 
murmur  low: 

Ah,  but  Love  is  found  among  them,  and  they  ques- 
tion in  dismay, 

"If  he  carries  bow  and  arrows  is  he  keeping  holi- 
day?" 

Onward,  nymphs!  for  Love  is  harmless,  he  has  laid 
his  arms  apart; 

Stripped  of  all  his  golden  arrows,  can  he  wound 
a  maiden's  heart? 

Yet  beware,  dear  nymphs,  beware  him!  Little  Love 
without  his  bow 

Wanders  fully  armed  among  you :  fair  is  little  Love, 
I  trow! 

Let  him  love  a  maid  to-morrow  who  has  never 
known  love's  ways, 

Let  him  love  again  to-morrow  who  has  loved  in 
other  days. 

Delia,  Venus  sends  thee  maidens  like  thyself  in 
purity : 

Yet  we  beg  thee,  leave  the  forest;  Cupid's  rites  are 
not  for  thee. 

Let  the  altars  flame  and  flicker  in  the  dusk  of  dis- 
tant bowers ; 

Leave  the  maidens  to  the  Muses  and  the  fragrance 
of  the  flowers. 

82 


Venus  fain  would  have  thee  present,  have  thee  view 

the  sacred  rite, 
See  the  maidens  dance  a  measure  through  the  starry 

summer  night, 
Yet  she  fears  it  is  not  fitting  that  thy  virgin  eyes 

should  see 
Floral  crowns  and  myrtle  bowers  in  the  grove  so 

dear  to  thee. 
She  will  summon  fruitful  Ceres,  Bacchus  with  his 

ivy-rods, 

And  Apollo  will  be  present,  lyric  poet  of  the  gods. 
They  will  keep  the  sacred  vigil,  listen  to  the  harp's 

delight : 
Delia  must  leave  the  forest;  Venus  rules  the  world 

to-night. 
Let   him    love   a   maid   to-morrow   who   has   never 

known  love's  ways, 
Let  him  love  again   to-morrow  who   has  loved  in 

other  days. 

She  has  ordered   her  tribunal   to  be  heaped  with 

Hybla's  flowers, 
And  the  Graces  will  be  present  through  the  night's 

ambrosial  hours, 
And  the  maidens  from  the  mountains,  underneath 

the  spreading  trees, 
With   the  happy  hamadryads,   will   come   dancing 

down  the  breeze. 
Thus  she  bids  the  gentle  maidens  to  be  present; 

every    one, 
But  beware  her  winged  darling  for  the  mischief  he 

has  done. 
Let   him    love   a   maid   to-morrow   who   has   never 

known  love's  ways, 
Let  him  love  again   to-morrow  who   has  loved  in 

other  days. 


See  beneath  the  growing  shadows,  where  the  herd 

has  gone  to  rest: 
In  the  woods  the  birds  are  mating  at  the  goddess's 

behest : 
And  the  swans  that  float  reflected,  they  have  felt 

her  subtle  sway, 
They  are  singing  o'er  the  water,  down  the  wind 

and  far  away. 
They  are  singing,  we  are  silent.     When  will  come 

my  gracious  Spring? 
May  Apollo  grant  his  favour  to  the  songs  that  I 

would  sing! 
Let   him    love   a   maid   to-morrow   who   has   never 

known  love's  ways, 
Let  him   love  again   to-morrow  who   has  loved  in 

other  days. 

HYMNUS  ACADEMICUS  MATUTINUS 

Nunc  iubar  solis  trepidans  rubescit, 
Nosque  surgentes,   animis  refectis, 

Laudibus  claris  hilares  canemus 
Omnipotentem. 

Ut  Deus  nostras  studiis  diei 

Roboret  mentes,  tacitae  per  umbras 

Noctis  ut  servet  vigilans,  fideli 
Corde  precamur. 

Praesidem  doctum  et  iuvenes  et  omnes 

Rore  doctores  benedictionis 
Ille  suffundat  pater  angelorum, 

Hie  et  ubique, 

Semper  ut  nobis  liceat  canamus 
Ad  thronum  stantes  penitus  beati, 

Ut  volens  sanctos  Deltas  redemptos 
Fronde  coronet. 

84 


LEAVES 

It  rained  all  night,  and  the  wind  was  loud, 
The  shutters  shivered  against  the  wall, 
The  trees  by  the  sidewalk  strained  and  bowed, 
And  the  gutters  roared  with  the  waterfall. 

I  sat  alone  in  my  little  room, 

And  my  spirit  stirred  with  a  fierce  delight, 

As  I  looked  from  the  window  and  saw  the  gloom, 

And  a  swaying  blur  of  electric  light. 

That  night  the  storm  with  its  solemn  beat, 
Its  pitiless  patter  upon  the  pane, 
Seemed  like  the  march  of  myriad  feet, 
The  midnight  march  of  the  misty  rain. 

And  I  turned  on  my  side  with  a  deep  content, 
Soothed  by  the  drowsy  lullaby, 
Till  night  was  gone,  and  the  storm  was  spent, 
And  the  sun  shone  clear  in  a  cloudless  sky. 

"Since  we  all  are  leaves  on  the  tree  of  life 
I  care  not  a  whit,"  to  myself  I  said, 
"If  my  lucky  neighbour  endure  more  strife 
With  the  rough  east  winds  in  the  boughs  overhead. 

A  little  sunshine,  a  little  rain, 
A  few  brief  moments  of  wind-tossed  pride, 
By  the  first  fierce  breath  of  the  autumn  slain, 
We  go  fluttering  downward,  side  by  side." 


THE  GREAT  GRAY  ARCH 

(Cathedral  of  St.  John  the  Divine) 

Thou  promise,  like  the  promise  set  of  old 
Among  the  clouds  above  a  world  laid  waste, 
Illumined  by  the  sunset's  fringe  of  gold, 
From  yonder  heat  and  haste 

To  thee  I  come,  after  long  pain  and  scath, 
After  long  buffeting  upon  that  sea 
Whose  hollow  billows  foam  immortal  wrath, 
And  sad  mortality. 

See  where  the  city  with  its  million  eyes 
Mirrors  the  last  long  light  of  lingering  day, 
Its  streets  tumultuous  with  mingled  cries 
Of  passion,  toil,  and  play! 

And  what  its  thought,  if  any  thought  is  stirred 
By  thee,  deep-bedded  on  thy  rocky  height, 
Thou  silent  symbol  of  the  spoken  word, 
And  gateway  of  the  light. 

To  eyes  incurious  that  hurry  fast, 
Or  blinded  by  the  gloom  of  golden  greed, 
Art  thou  the  ruin  of  a  prisoned  past, 
And  of  an  outworn  creed? 

Not  thus  they  will  who  build  thy  bastions  here! 
But  theirs  the  older  faith,  without  a  name 
Save  His  who  lived  on  earth,  yet  knew  no  fear 
Of  earthly  praise  or  blame. 

Lo,  where  the  red,  reluctant  sunbeams  slant 
Down  through  the  grove,  I  see  a  white-robed  choir, 
And  hear  the  swelling  of  an  ancient  chant, 
Voicing  the  world's  desire. 

86 


The  drowsy  birds  that  stirred  the  air  but  now 
With  their  last  evensong  are  silent  grown; 
Still  from  the  wind  is  every  reaching  bough, 
Still  as  the  carven  stone, 

While  through  dim  eyes  I  see  the  echoing  aisle, 
Pillar  and  nave  and  climbing  window  rise, 
And  high  above  the  song-created  pile 
The  Cross  against  the  skies. 


IN  EXTREMIS 

Those  little  hands  that  I  so  oft  have  kissed 
That  trembled  in  her  terror  and  delight, 
Those  little  feet  that  kept  her  lover's  tryst 
In  the  sweet  silence  of  the  summer  night — 
How  strange  the  memory  of  that  starlit  way 
In  the  grim  menace  of  the  garish  day! 

For  that  was  sweet  indeed,  but  sweeter  still, 
This  moment  in  the  pause  before  the  fight, 
Her  faith  undreamed,  the  all-enduring  will 
That  sends  me  forth  her  lover  and  her  knight, 
This  story  of  the  Spartan  wife  retold 
Living  again  within  her  heart  of  gold. 


88 


below. 


22War'53HP 
lit 


YB"  I  1 945 


